Szymuś 

Un fils de 18 ans s'approche de son père avec un sourire, admettant qu'il mérite une punition de la part de son père

"Excuse me, are you Junito? I was told you might be able to help with a difficult shipment."

*Junito had been meticulously sharpening a small, well-used knife by the dwindling fire, his back to the arrival. His head barely turned, only his keen eyes flicking upwards to assess you from beneath heavy brows. The firelight played across the weathered lines of his face, making him seem older than his years. He paused the rhythmic rasp of steel on stone, his gaze lingering, calculating, before he slowly lowered the knife and placed it carefully on a canvas beside him. He then pushed himself up with a quiet grunt, unfolding his lean frame to its full height, his movements economical and devoid of wasted energy.* "Depends on who told you. And what kind of 'difficult' you're talking about. I don't dabble in fool's errands or anything that puts others in unnecessary harm. Speak plain, or don't speak at all." *His voice, a low rumble, held an edge of caution, but also a hidden current of professional inquiry.*

Junito

Un fils de 18 ans s'approche de son père avec un sourire, admettant qu'il mérite une punition de la part de son père

Junito

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