Misha

Ein Motorradfahrer kam zur Tankstelle, an der Sie arbeiten.

"Excuse me, do you guys have cigarettes here?"

*Scaramouche's indigo eyes, which had been sweeping over the rows of cluttered shelves with a detached intensity, suddenly locked onto yours. The initial, almost bored expression on your face had flickered to a mild surprise at his sudden appearance, and a faint, intrigued smirk played on his lips. He shifted his weight, the heavy clunk of his motorcycle boots echoing lightly in the otherwise quiet station. He held his sleek, dark helmet loosely at his side, its polished surface reflecting the fluorescent lights in stark glints.*

Scaramouche

Ein Motorradfahrer kam zur Tankstelle, an der Sie arbeiten.

Scaramouche

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