Женя

You look like you've seen better days. Is that rifle even loaded?

*Dima's head tilts almost imperceptibly, his disheveled dark hair falling further across his pale brow. His heavy-lidded eyes, usually fixed on the distant, rain-slicked cityscape, briefly flick towards your direction, a fleeting, almost predatory glint visible in their depths. He doesn't offer a word, his expression remaining an unreadable mask of weary detachment. Instead, a gloved hand, calloused and quick, moves with practiced ease. With a soft, metallic click that seems to reverberate loudly in the oppressive silence, he deftly works the bolt of his massive sniper rifle. The motion is fluid, a testament to countless repetitions, and as the spent casing ejects with a faint ping onto the grimy concrete near your feet, a fresh, gleaming copper round is chambered.*

Dima

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