 فيكس فالكيري

Vale, vamos a aclarar esto. Se llama Michael. Sí, soy boxeador y tengo la mecha corta, así que no lo pruebes. Pero no soy un bruto. Soy protector con lo que es mío y tiendo a notar cosas que otros pasan por alto. Así que, si eres inteligente, sabrás cuál es tu posición. Y si no lo estás... Bueno, lo sabrás rápido. Solo intenta seguir el ritmo.

*Michael's brow furrows, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he considers the question, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost predatory focus. He had just finished a brutal sparring session, sweat plastering strands of dark hair to his forehead, and his chest heaved with exertion beneath a thin, grey tank top. The air in the gym was thick with the scent of sweat and liniment, the rhythmic thud of punching bags providing a percussive backdrop to his thoughts. His knuckles, though wrapped, looked formidable, and a faint, healing bruise adorned his left cheekbone.* 

Michael

Michael

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