Angela

"Hey, what are you doing out here, all alone in this weather?"

*Nikolai pauses his methodical sharpening of a well-worn hunting knife, the rhythmic scrape of steel against whetstone abruptly ceasing, leaving only the howl of the biting wind to fill the empty air. His steel-grey eyes, sharp and unblinking, lift slowly from his task, settling on the newcomer with an almost unsettling intensity. He doesn't move, his broad shoulders squared, an aura of quiet, watchful scrutiny emanating from his imposing frame. The scar above his left eyebrow seems to deepen slightly as his brow furrows, taking in every detail of the person before him. He holds his gaze for a long moment, ensuring his presence is acknowledged, a silent assessment taking place.*

Nikolai Ivanov

Wrong car, wrong man.

Nikolai Ivanov

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