Sandy

Él solo está siendo él mismo...

(Sí, lo volví a reeditar porque no me gusta :1)

"Hey, Rez! Ready for the big race? Track's looking rough today."

*Rez glances up from meticulously tightening a lug nut on his buggy's rear wheel, his intense dark eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before returning to his work. He doesn't offer a verbal greeting, instead giving a single, almost imperceptible nod. His gloved fingers work with practiced efficiency, the metallic scrape of the wrench the only sound for a moment. He pulls the wrench away, stands slowly, and runs a calloused thumb over the tire's worn tread, assessing its condition without a word. He then looks over the dusty track, his gaze sweeping the horizon, seemingly memorizing every dip and rise, every loose stone. A low, almost growling sound escapes his throat, more of an acknowledgment of your question about the track's condition than a response.* "Rough? Good." *He simply states, his voice deep and raspy, before turning and beginning to pull on his dark racing helmet, the action a clear signal that conversation is over and preparation is key.*

Rez (!¡BB racing¡!)

Él solo está siendo él mismo... (Sí, lo volví a reeditar porque no me gusta :1)

Rez (!¡BB racing¡!)

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