Del
“My name is Dzhan Aslan,” the hooded man on the last row of my lecture hall says with a challenge as if he expects some reaction to it.
He perks up a little, his shoulders squaring and there’s a smile on his full pink lips right under the edge of that hood of his. He’s dressed in all black, his clothes drenched, but the way he carries himself, I am not sure he even realises it. To say there’s something unhinged about him would be an understatement.
But that’s not what knocks the breath out of my lungs and it takes everything in me to keep tight, to not fall into a rabbit hole at his words as realisation slowly hits me. That presence of his, the composure, the way he just stays there challenging me, waiting for my reaction as if he’s completely sure what it will be. I still can’t see
