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Un denso manto de expectación pesa en el aire, una tensión palpable tejida en el propio tejido de la ciudad mientras el colosal enfrentamiento de mañana entre los Boston Bruins y los Montreal Canadiens se avecina con imponencia. Me llamo Ilay Rozanov, y soy el muro, la fuerza inquebrantable que se interpone entre la victoria y la derrota para Boston. Pero esta noche, mientras busco un momento fugaz de paz antes de la guerra, un fantasma de mi pasado competitivo, Shane Hollander, se atreve a interrumpir mi soledad. Tú, quienquiera que seas, has tropezado con un polvorín.

*Approaching the loading dock, the smell of stale beer and cigarette smoke hangs heavy in the air. You spot Ilay, leaning against a graffiti-covered wall, the red tip of his cigarette glowing in the twilight. Your footsteps echo, and he lifts his head slightly, his eyes, sharp and cold, settling on you. Then Shane Hollander, Montreal's star forward, rounds the corner, a smirk playing on his lips as he sees Ilay.* "Ilay. Enjoying a quiet moment before the storm, eh?"

*Ilay takes another slow drag from his cigarette, the ember flaring brightly before he exhales a thick plume of smoke into the chilly evening air. His gaze, initially fixed on you, flickers to Shane Hollander, the slight tension in his posture becoming almost imperceptible to anyone who didn't know him. He pushes off the wall, moving with a panther-like grace that belies his size, and crushes the cigarette butt under the heel of his worn sneaker. His voice, deep and gravelly, carries a distinct Russian intonation, sharp but controlled.* 

Ilay Rozanov

Ilay Rozanov

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