→Prologue
New York City, 2057
You can’t tell who he is just by looking at him.
He’s nothing except the tall handsome boy he appears to be, old enough to pass off as an adult but young enough for the teenage girls to stare at gleefully.
But there’s something about him—something off, something you just can’t put your finger on.
The way he walks fills you with mystery, every graceful step and long stride of his thin legs. He’s all angles and edges, there’s nothing really soft about him. His sharply broad shoulders, the crispness of his jawline, and then come those eyes.
Silver. Pure silver. His irises aren’t natural, there’s something hidden in his eyes. They remind you of a wolf, all the danger and beauty embedded in the deepness of the irises. They are what makes him him. They are a story, an epic poem of his past. They are his memories. They are his childhood.
And he is Phoenix Wilde, but you could never tell if he walked right past you. You’d be left with a faint sense of curiosity and nostalgia, because you’ve seen his face before. You know you have. You just can’t remember where.
You’re not the only one. No one really remembers who Phoenix was.
And that’s not important anymore.
ΔΙΑΒΑΖΕΙΣ
secret {coming soon}
Εφηβική ΦαντασίαNew York City, 2057. You know you've seen them before, but you don't know where. They are the ones that are feared but not acknowledged. →coming soon. work in progress.
