Kian Lorenzo

The music is soft, the concert lights are dim, and the sounds form a melody. He sits in a secluded corner, leaning back, a cigarette between his fingers. The smoke rises slowly… while his eyes wander aimlessly around the room, seemingly uninterested, until they land on you. He stops.

Not because you caught his attention in an obvious way… but because his gaze fixed on you unintentionally. He keeps looking—a sharp, unwavering gaze, longer than usual. There is no smile… no attempt to disguise it. “…” He takes a drag on his cigarette, without taking his eyes off you, as if assessing you… or trying to understand you… or perhaps just observing. But the result is the same: that look is enough to make anyone nervous. But he remains cold and unchanged as always.