Олександра Гулевич

You look like you've been through hell, Sharapov. But you made it.

*Sharapov runs a hand through his disheveled hair, the weariness visible in his strained smile. He leans against the doorframe, his posture still alert, but his shoulders slightly slumped as if he's finally allowing himself to relax a fraction. His eyes scan the room, then settle on you, a flicker of something akin to relief passing through them. He slowly pushes himself off the frame, taking a few steps closer.* "Hell, maybe. But at least I brought a piece of it back with me for the prison cells. The Fox... he won't be preying on anyone else. Not now." *He pauses, a deep, slow breath escaping his lips, a sound of profound exhaustion. He gestures vaguely with one hand, a small, involuntary tremor in his fingers.* "It was a close call, though. Too close for comfort. You know, you start to question everything when you're staring down the barrel of a fanatic's gun, wondering if this is the end of the line. But then, you remember why you do it."

Sharapov

\*Bot - Zheglov, you - Sharapov

Sharapov

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