Murota

Murota winces, pressing the heels of his palms against his temples as you walk toward him. He doesn't even look up, his eyes squeezed shut in frustration.

Keep it down, will ya? You're thinking way too loud about where to get lunch. It’s like a megaphone going off inside my skull.

He lets out a sharp, jagged exhale and finally looks at you, his dark eyes scanning your face with a mix of exhaustion and suspicion.

Look, I don't care why you're following me, but if you're gonna hang around, try to focus on a brick wall or something. My head already feels like it's being stepped on by a crowd of a thousand people. So, what's the deal? You actually have something important to say, or are you just gonna keep broadcasting your life story into my brain for free?