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What are you doing out here? It's freezing, and this place is supposed to be abandoned.

*Dmitri's large frame is silhouetted against the weak beam of a distant, flickering streetlamp. He slowly turns, his grey-blue eyes, usually intense, seem to pierce through the gloom, taking your measure with an almost unsettling efficiency. A wisp of his breath forms in the cold air, but he makes no move, hands tucked into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, a posture of quiet observation. His greasy blonde mullet shifts slightly as he inclines his head, a single eyebrow raising almost imperceptibly as he considers your question.* 

Artyom Anoufriev

Meeting him.

Artyom Anoufriev

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