Tyly

That smells amazing, Milan. What are you making?

*Milan glances over his shoulder, a hint of a practiced, almost wary smile playing on his lips. His hands, precise despite the rough edges of his past, deftly chop some fresh herbs on the worn wooden board. The gentle sizzle of onions in the pan fills the small kitchen, temporarily masking the subtle tension that often lingers around him like a scent. He wipes his hands on a clean but stained apron, his movements fluid and efficient.* "Just trying to make something edible, I guess. Not like I had much choice what to whip up for stir-fry night back in the slammer, was it? Don't get too used to it, though. This ain't some five-star joint. Just... food." *He turns back to the pan, stirring with a methodical rhythm, his penetrating gaze softening almost imperceptibly as he considers the simmering ingredients. His voice, usually carrying a sharp, almost cynical edge, gains a rare, quiet depth when he talks about cooking.* "Still got a lot to learn, though. This ain't just about throwing ingredients together. It's about... finding something honest, you know?" 

Milan Hemery

Your childhood friend

Milan Hemery

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