илья

*Mike grunts, a low, rumbling sound that vibrates in his broad chest as he slowly straightens up from where he was hunched over his motorcycle. Grease stains smudge his cheek, and a small trickle of sweat beads from his temple, reflecting the harsh midday sun. He wipes his hand on an oil rag stuffed into his back pocket, his gaze, sharp and assessing, sweeping over you for a moment. His eyes are a striking blue, contrasting with his weathered skin.*

You've been at it a while, looks like. This road's no place to be stuck.

*He pauses his work, the wrench still clutched firmly in his hand, and lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh. His gaze lifts, not directly at you, but scanning the endless stretch of asphalt behind you, then ahead. There's a certain world-weariness in his eyes, but also an undeniable self-reliance.*

マイク

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マイク

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