He stood. Arms crossed, legs spread wide apart, lips set in a moody line. His dark, dishevelled hair fell over his forehead. His every move was calm, smooth; the very picture of power. He was slouched against a wall, sunglasses rested high on his dark head. His black garb radiated rebelliousness, as did his masculine stance. He was the dark silhouette that stood silently at the corner. He mean, he appeared mad, he appeared magnificent. But not in his eyes. They told a truer tale. Those dark blue intense eyes. They divulged the empathy, the pain and the suspicion. They told the secrets of his soul. All the tortured emotions and befuddled impressions. The fear. Not the fear of dying, it was the fear of living. The bottled blue storm of cries locked up in those dark, blue intense eyes. It was their thundering capability to clasp the innocent bystander, their locking, mesmerising gaze.
He stood. Arms crossed, legs spread wide apart, lips set in a moody line. He seemed the rebel of the age, the crusader of cool. The only thing that betrayed him was his eyes.