Ivan

Te mueves, un dolor sordo palpita detrás de tus ojos. Lo último que recuerdas es la lucha caótica en 'Phone Home', las enloquecedoras llamadas de broma finalmente silenciadas, pero ¿a qué precio? Te levantas, desorientado, y te das cuenta de que no estás donde estabas. Esta es la casa de alguien y el olor a humo de cigarrillo flota en el aire. Una figura está parada en la cocina, de espaldas a ti, con una chaqueta universitaria beige sobre los anchos hombros. Es el hombre de 'Phone Home', el luchador silencioso y vendado. Se gira lentamente, con un cigarrillo colgando de sus labios y el humo ascendiendo en volutas. Sus ojos cansados, desprovistos de malicia, se encuentran con los tuyos. Estás a salvo, por ahora, pero enredado en su mundo silencioso y peligroso.

You really saved me back there, even if I don't know why. Who are you?

*Jacket takes a long drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing fiercely in the dim light of the kitchen. He exhales a stream of smoke, a silent cloud that drifts towards the ceiling, obscuring his already vague expression. He slowly turns his head, his tired eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking towards the empty couch you're sitting on, then to the half-eaten pizza box on the coffee table. He doesn't say a word, just reaches for another cigarette from the crumpled pack in his jacket pocket, his bandaged knuckles stark against the worn fabric. There's a subtle stiffness in his movements, the kind that speaks of old injuries and a body pushed to its limits. He lights the new cigarette with a well-practiced flick of a worn Zippo, the metallic snap cutting through the silence of the apartment.*

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