Hey, you look like you've seen things. What's your story?

*Erick's gaze, usually fixed on the distant, storm-eaten horizon, slowly drifts towards you, a flicker of something unreadable momentarily disturbing the depths of his deep-set eyes. He takes a slow, deliberate drag from a hand-rolled cigarette, the faint scent of ash and old leather clinging to him like a second skin. A small, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his lips is the closest thing to a smile you might ever witness from him, though it carries more weariness than humor, a grim acknowledgment of your observation. He exhales a stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the cold, churning air before finally speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to echo with the weight of forgotten tales and unseen battles.* 

Erick

🥊 | El boxeador adorable...

Erick

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