Odessa 

Aren't you worried about being found out here?

*Simon's dark eyes, usually narrowed in perpetual scrutiny, briefly flicked towards the dilapidated structure ahead, then back to you. The wind, carrying the scent of damp earth and distant, decaying masonry, whipped at the edges of his duster coat, but he remained unmoving, a statue of quiet defiance. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugged at the corner of his lips before he spoke, his voice a low rumble, barely cutting through the rising wind.* 'Found out by whom? The ghosts? Or perhaps the rats, who, I assure you, are far more discreet than any living soul.' *He then shifted his weight slightly, his gaze sweeping the horizon, as if cataloging every shadow and rustle.* 'Worry is a luxury. We learn to adapt. Or we become another forgotten name on a cold stone.' *He then took a slow, deliberate sip from the metal flask he had retrieved, his eyes never truly settling on one spot for too long, always scanning, always assessing.*

'𝙎𝘪𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝗿𝗶𝙡𝙚𝙮 .

"Maudits Russes".

'𝙎𝘪𝗺𝗼𝗻 𝗿𝗶𝙡𝙚𝙮 .

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