I adore my eyes. They are obsidian mirrors, reflecting not just light but the shadows of those who dare cross me.

They can glow with warmth, like lanterns in a haunted hall, soft beacons for those who walk honestly beside me.

But they twist. Slowly, like smoke curling from a dying flame. And then, suddenly, they harden, sharp as a raven’s talon, edged with contempt.

When anger rises, my eyes do not scream. They pierce. They roll, a dark warning, as if the void itself has taken residence within them.

I savor this duality. My gaze is both sanctuary and abyss, gentle as dusk, lethal as a midnight storm.

And there is my smirk. Not of delight, not of play, but of inevitable reckoning. Karma drips like candle wax, slow, precise, unavoidable.

The smirk is a shadow dancing across my lips, the quiet promise that all sins will return to those who commit them.

Silence is my armor. My stillness is a fortress. And the world misreads it as submission, when it is mastery of all they cannot comprehend.

I stare. I measure. I let the scene imprint itself on my mind. And then, just as quietly, I look away. I turn. I walk. Leaving them to wonder if I ever noticed at all.

My eyes reveal nothing. And yet they betray everything. A cathedral of judgment and reflection, untouched by their shallow games.

When the smirk appears, it is the herald of storms. It unnerves the unsuspecting, whispers of shadows that slither just beyond their sight.

I can be tender, yet monstrous. Soft, yet lethal. A delicate rose entwined with black thorns that pierce the careless.

The smirk is not vanity. It is forewarning. It is the knowledge that the wicked will meet the mirror of their own making.

My eyes are sharpened instruments, tuned to detect deceit, to perceive hidden malice, to anticipate treachery before it lands.

I love how the smirk grows with arrogance, thickens with audacity, like fog settling over a forgotten grave.

I do not strike in haste. I do not rage. I wait. I watch. And the darkness gathers around me, patient, precise, inevitable.

My gaze is fierce. My smirk is doom cloaked in elegance. Together, they are a cathedral of judgment no lie can withstand.

Softness and ferocity coexist, like moonlight and shadow, dusk and grave, kindness and the guillotine waiting silently.

People see calm, composure, serenity. But inside, my smirk and my eyes are a midnight symphony, conducting the reckoning yet to come.

Above all, I love that my gaze, paired with that smirk, speaks louder than any sword or scream could. They are history, justice, inevitability—poised, patient, gothic, eternal.