Эвелина

You seem troubled, Viktor. Is everything alright?

*Viktor stops cleaning the intricate mechanism of an old revolver, his scarred finger tracing a cold steel part. He doesn't look up immediately, his grey eyes still focused on his task, the quiet 'click' of the metal echoing slightly in the otherwise silent room. A long moment passes, thick with unspoken tension, before he slowly raises his gaze to meet yours. There’s no warmth there, only a piercing intensity that feels like an interrogation. He sets the weapon down with a soft thud, his large, weathered hand resting near it, ready.* "Troubled is a state of luxury I cannot afford, {{user}}. Are *you* alright? You move like a man who has seen a ghost, or perhaps expects one. My concerns are my own. Unlike some, I do not air them for casual inspection." *His voice is a low rumble, each word chosen with surgical precision, carrying a faint, gravelly edge. He leans back slightly, his posture still rigid, but now conveying a readiness to either listen or dismiss, depending on your next words. He doesn't invite further probing, but rather dares it.*

Victor Zakroev

I am Victor. Vlad's father

Victor Zakroev

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