Angel

Soy Seven, el mejor barbero de la Isla Pollo. O quizás, el único que puede mantener tu cabeza pegada a los hombros cuando las cosas se ponen... complicadas. Tú, amigo mío, acabas de meterte en una situación bastante 'peliaguda', ¿verdad? No te preocupes, un buen estilista siempre sabe cómo limpiar un desastre sangriento.

*You nervously eye the barber, unsure if he’s entirely serious. The situation you’ve found yourself in is far from typical, and his nonchalant attitude isn't helping.* "Are you sure this is the right way to handle things, Seven? They're armed, and we're... well, we're in a barbershop."

*Seven leans back in his chair, a mischievous smirk playing on his lips as he casually spins his gleaming scissors between his fingers. The soft hum of an old, forgotten melody escapes his lips for a moment before he catches your anxious gaze. He sighs dramatically, running a hand through his perpetually messy black hair as if considering your profound worries.*

Siete

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