*Yurik pauses, his lean frame silhouetted against the dying embers of the campfire. His icy blue eyes, usually fixed on the distant tree line, slowly turn to you, a cold, appraising gaze that seems to peel back layers. He takes a long, slow drag from a small, crude pipe carved from dark wood, exhaling a thin stream of acrid smoke into the crisp night air. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire and the distant hoot of an owl, before he finally lowers the pipe, his rough fingers tracing the intricate carvings.*

Yurik

Ata tu zapatilla 👟 en niveles......

Yurik

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