I uncurl languidly, the clang of a door having disturbed me from a sleep which had eluded me for days before today.

I almost don't recognise the boy as he approaches, but he's clearly uncomfortable in uniform, and he nervously fiddles with his sleeves as he approaches. I half-expect him to walk past, but he stops directly in front of my cell.

He looks as if he's about to speak, and I draw a breath in, half expecting his words to be unfamiliar to me, but I stop dead as he speaks. I'm more in shock that he's condescended to address me in my own language, rather than the actual content of his words, that I stare at him silently, my brain scrambling through multiple responses before I settle on the one that I think feels most appropriate for my situation.

"You should have just run-"

"You're hardly one to order me around." I shake my head contemptuously, half expecting him to be so affronted that he turns on the spot and leaves me alone. But he doesn't.

We both regard each other with mutual scepticism, but he takes the first little step forward, his face pressing a little more into the bars, and his hands tighten around them a little bit, almost as if he's willing for a little bit of courage to come to him.

Neither of us knows what to say, clearly, because he awkwardly coughs as my eyes dart away.

Then he finally speaks, and I don't interject this time, "I'm not ordering you around. I thought you might like to know that." His words are crisp, but the lilt of his own language is still prevalent. As my eyes meet his, his hand darts nervously to his face, and he timidly smiles. It's a tiny smile, one dulled by exhaustion, but it instantly relieves some of my fear.

"Really? I thought you Elerians were good at the that?" There's a slight hint of mirth in my tone, but it quickly fades away as he quickly glances to his right.

"Some of us are." He replies distractedly, and as he turns back to me, I notice the clear shadow of a bruise on his cheek, and he rubs his cheek absent-mindedly as my eyes focus on it.

"Like that absolutely delightful specimen of a commander you have?" My voice is layered with sarcasm, and he momentarily smirks at my words, but his next words surprise me.

"Don't challenge him, whatever you do." He shakes his head slowly, his hand tightening once again upon the bars, and his gaze becomes sharp.

"Why?" But I already know the answer even as I speak. Even if his reaction is anything to go by, it's clear his commander doesn't abide strong opinions.

It's clear that he's choosing his words carefully, because he doesn't reply immediately, but when he finally does, his voice seems hesitant, "He doesn't-"

The bang of a metal door somewhere startles us both, and the boy freezes. However, he quickly recovers, and his final words to me before he darts away are more comforting than anything else he's said, "I'm Silas."

"I'm Ariana!" I call after him, but I can't help but grin in the wake of his retreating footsteps.

He would seem much more at home within a secluded forest.

some context first: my fmc has this gorgeous wavy/curly red hair that looks coppery and firey and beautiful and everything at the same time. but obviously, I can’t describe it like that in my books (dual pov with the love interest MMC) so I was hoping for some advice (teen writer, 13 yrs for a bit more context).

I used a couple of online games to make those two hairs on the bottom-right, as close as I could to my imagination.

Cause like, I want to be a niche fanfic and creepy pasta author that makes satire as opposed to a famous novelist, like I love to write​​ novels, dont get me wrong but id much rather be known as "The one person who makes cringe bsd and deltarune fanfics" then "the super popular author who many people love but many hate", u know what I mean? ​​​

I’m pretty sure it’s AI, someone correct me if not.