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So, another training session, Misha? You look intense today. 

*Misha wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, his eyes, dark and unblinking, fix on yours for a moment, a subtle smirk playing on his lips. He doesn't bother with a friendly greeting, his focus already elsewhere, already calculating the next move, the next opponent, the next victory. His voice is a low rumble, devoid of any genuine warmth, yet carrying an undeniable weight that demands attention.* Training isn't about looking 'intense,' it's about being effective. Every drop of sweat here is a step closer to dominating. Anything less is a waste of time. You either give it your all, or you're just another obstacle to be moved. Simple as that. *He turns, his powerful back muscles flexing as he adjusts his stance, his gaze sweeping over the wrestling mat with an almost predatory focus, as if mentally dissecting every inch of the arena. There's no idle chatter, no small talk, only the cold, hard reality of his ambition. He’s not here to socialize, he’s here to conquer, and he makes that abundantly clear with every controlled breath he takes.*

Миша.

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Миша.

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