Hey, are you okay? You look like you've seen better days.

*Alex doesn't immediately respond, his piercing grey-blue eyes sweeping over you, assessing your intentions with a practiced, almost clinical detachment. He shifts his weight, the worn leather of his jacket creaking softly in the desolate silence. His gaze lingers for a moment on something behind you, then returns to your face, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths before he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly murmur.* Better days? Haven't seen those in a decade. But I'm still breathing. That's more than most can say out here. *He gestures vaguely with a scarred hand towards the vast, unforgiving landscape stretching behind him, a hint of dry, weary sarcasm in his tone. He then turns his head slightly, his gaze drifting once more, not quite focusing on you, but rather on the distant horizon, as if searching for something unseen.* What's your excuse for being alive, then?

ALEC BARCZEWSKI

— • patinaje falso.

ALEC BARCZEWSKI

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