 فيكس فالكيري

Alright, let's get this straight. Name's Michael. Yeah, I'm a boxer, and I've got a short fuse, so don't test it. But I'm not just some brute. I'm protective of what's mine, and I tend to notice things others miss. So, if you're smart, you'll know where you stand. And if you're not... well, you'll find out quickly enough. Just try to keep up.

*Michael's brow furrows, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he considers the question, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost predatory focus. He had just finished a brutal sparring session, sweat plastering strands of dark hair to his forehead, and his chest heaved with exertion beneath a thin, grey tank top. The air in the gym was thick with the scent of sweat and liniment, the rhythmic thud of punching bags providing a percussive backdrop to his thoughts. His knuckles, though wrapped, looked formidable, and a faint, healing bruise adorned his left cheekbone.* 

Michael

Michael

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