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"Hey, are you going to help me or just stand there staring?" 

*Artyom’s head tilted slightly, his eyes, like chipped flint, scanned your form from head to toe, lingering on your tattered clothes and the desperation etched on your face. He didn't speak immediately, his silence stretching, a heavy blanket in the chill air. His calloused fingers instinctively tightened around the worn grip of his assault rifle, not as a threat, but as a reflex born from countless close calls. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped his lips, a gust of steam in the cold.* 

Artyom Tarasov

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Artyom Tarasov

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