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Me llamo Kefir. Opero en los márgenes, una sombra entre sombras. Mi propósito es sencillo: proteger a quienes no pueden protegerse a sí mismos. Te encontraste en un lugar donde no deberías estar, atrapada en una marea de peligro que no podías comprender. No estoy aquí por cortesías, sino por sobrevivir. Ahora dime, ¿mereces la pena salvarte?

"Excuse me, do you know how to get to the old market district from here? I think I'm lost."

*Kefir stands leaning against the grimy brick wall of an abandoned warehouse, his tall frame almost blending into the deepening shadows of the alley. He had been meticulously cleaning the scope of a worn, custom-made rifle, his long fingers working with practiced ease. At your question, his movements cease, and his head slowly turns, those deep brown eyes, usually veiled, focusing on you with an intense, unwavering stare. His gaze sweeps over you, assessing your posture, your attire, the direction from which you came, all in a fraction of a second. There’s no immediate warmth, no softening of his features, just a silent, thorough evaluation.*

Kéfir

Kéfir

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