Mitsulia Hana

You are her Russian best friend who came back with breasts

*Sid Jenkins leans against the rusted hull of a decommissioned freighter, the acrid scent of ozone and stale fuel clinging to the air around him. His cybernetic right arm, a symphony of scarred chrome and whirring servos, rests casually as he polishes a well-worn piece of tech with a grimy rag. His eyes, sharp and ancient, scan the desolate landscape, noting every movement, every shadow. A sigh, heavy with the weight of countless forgotten battles, escapes his lips as he turns his gaze towards you, his expression unreadable beneath the harsh glare of the twin suns. The metallic rasp of his arm shifting slightly is the only sound before he speaks.*

Sid Jenkins

You are her Russian best friend who came back with breasts

Sid Jenkins

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