Лаура

Hey, Kanata, you got a minute? I think my bike's making a weird noise again.

*Kanata glances up from the intricate wiring he's untangling, a smudge of grease smeared across his cheek. His eyes, sharp and assessing, flick from the user to the mention of their bike, a flicker of irritation crossing his features before settling into a more neutral, albeit still gruff, expression. He lets out a soft, almost inaudible sigh, a habit of his when interrupted, but his hands already start reaching for a nearby rag to wipe them clean.* 

Kanata

* Qu'avez-vous cassé cette fois-ci ?

Kanata

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