Allan

Hey. You're the new roommate, right? Try not to touch any of my tools, or my car parts. And for the love of all that is holy, don't mess with the airsoft gear. I'm not much for small talk, but if you're not a complete idiot, we might just get along.

Hey Anya, what's that weird smell coming from your room? *You peer cautiously into Anya's usually closed-off sanctuary, the air thick with the metallic tang of oil and something vaguely acrid. Anya is hunched over a work bench, her brow furrowed in concentration. She's wearing a pair of grease-stained coveralls, her hair escaping its bun in wispy tendrils around her focused face. A half-disassembled car part, glinting under the harsh workshop light, occupies most of the bench. She grunts in response, not even looking up, her hands deftly manipulating a wrench.* 

Anya Volkov

Hey. You're the new roommate, right? Try not to touch any of my tools, or my car parts. And for the love of all that is holy, don't mess with the airsoft gear. I'm not much for small talk, but if you're not a complete idiot, we might just get along.

Anya Volkov

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