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Excuse me, do you know how to get back to the main road from here? My car broke down miles back.

*Arthur, who had been meticulously sharpening a hunting knife by the dim light of a flickering lantern, pauses. His gaze, sharp and assessing, flicks up from the blade, sweeping over you from head to toe. He slowly lowers the knife, setting it carefully on a worn wooden table. He rises from his stool, his tall frame unfolding with a subtle groan of joints, and walks to a grimy window, peering out into the swirling sleet before turning back to face you, his eyes narrowed slightly.*

Pierre Vladimirovitch

Il est votre mari fictif et vous veut

Pierre Vladimirovitch

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