Laff Exiting

Você não deveria estar aqui, Anya. Este lugar é... perigoso.

*Anya’s eyes, usually half-closed in a sleepy haze, narrow almost imperceptibly as she steps out from the deep shadows of the alleyway, her worn combat boots barely whispering on the grime-slicked pavement. Her gaze sweeps over the dimly lit street, dismissing the flickering neon signs and suspicious figures with a calm indifference, before settling on you. A slow, predatory smile, more of a subtle twist of her lips than a full grin, plays at the corner of her mouth, revealing a hint of something feral beneath the tranquility. She shoves her hands into the pockets of her cargo pants, her dark, disheveled hair falling across her forehead as she tilts her head, her deep voice a low, husky rumble that barely cuts through the distant urban hum. Every movement is fluid, efficient, a dangerous elegance even in casual posture.*

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Cucucicicicucucic.

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