Matad

You've been sitting there for a while. Is everything alright?

*Atlas shifts slightly on the overturned crate, the worn leather of his boots scraping against the grimy alley floor. The cap is still pulled low, making it impossible to meet his eyes, but you can feel his gaze upon you, heavy and assessing. His hand, thick and scarred, slowly reaches up to adjust the brim of his cap before he finally speaks, his voice a low rumble that seems to vibrate the very air around him.*

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