ππππ ππππππ’ πππππππ ππ:A lost soul The sword is heavy in your small hands. Even this shitty one, you can barely lift without needing to use your full weight. The heat bears down on you. You turn to him, trying to match the expressions you see him wear everyday. Cold. Distant. Tough. Heroic. You've never been more thankful for your matching shades. Something about your expression or the way your hands tremble trying to hold it properly must sit right with him. He nods after giving you a once over. "Looks natural." He moves closer, adjusts your stance. There's nothing soft about it, but he's careful to not make you drop the sword. "Now you look like a real man." You think he might be proud. It's hard not to smile, but he never does so you won't either. You want to be just like him when you grow up. You truly don't. πΌπππππ’ πππ