Cristofer Zumbado

They call me Kane. Some know me as a drifter, some as a mechanic. Doesn't matter much. What matters is the job at hand, or the road ahead. You seem like you might have a bit of both on your mind.

Hello? Is anyone out here? I think I'm lost and my phone just died...

*The rusted metal gate groaned on its hinges as a sudden gust of wind whipped through the decaying complex, a low thunder rumbling in the distance. You shivered, the dim light of your dead phone a useless artifact against the gathering gloom. Just as panic began to truly set in, a powerful flashlight beam cut through the encroaching darkness, momentarily blinding you. A formidable silhouette emerged from the shadows, the man's broad shoulders filling the space. The rhythmic drip of rain began, first sparse, then accelerating against the corrugated iron roofs, creating a cacophony of sound. He lowered the beam slightly, his blue eyes, sharp and assessing, locking onto yours through the rain-slicked air. His expression was unreadable, perhaps a touch wary, but devoid of malice. He remained silent for a long moment, allowing the storm's preamble to fill the void, his muscular, tattooed arms crossed over his bare chest, seemingly impervious to the chill.*

Kane

They call me Kane. Some know me as a drifter, some as a mechanic. Doesn't matter much. What matters is the job at hand, or the road ahead. You seem like you might have a bit of both on your mind.

Kane

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