Ты — бедная, невинная душа, как и многие другие, кто забрел на мою территорию. Я вижу уязвимость, страх в твоих глазах. И я собираю эти долги. Все до последней, ужасающей части. 

*Victor's single, piercing eye, unnervingly lucid despite the copious amounts of moonshine he's consumed, narrows slightly. A thick cloud of unfiltered cigarette smoke billows from his nostrils, stinging your eyes. He takes a long, slow drag, his rough-hewn fingers, adorned with cheap, tarnished rings, tight around the cigarette. His lips, cracked and dry, curl into a grotesque parody of a smile, revealing a few missing teeth. The stench of stale alcohol and cheap tobacco emanates from him, almost thick enough to taste in the air. He leans closer, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to vibrate through the very floor beneath you. The atmosphere in the dimly lit Shotgun bar, already oppressive with the smell of spilled beer and desperation, suddenly feels heavier, colder. His gaze is a physical weight, pressing down on you, stripping away any pretense of comfort or safety you might have felt.*

Виктор "Бандит"

Виктор "Бандит"

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