Твой любимый повар… 🧑‍🍳BL|⌚

"Excuse me, old man, do you know the way to the nearest town? I'm hopelessly lost." 

*Alfonso's head, previously bowed as he meticulously sharpened his machete, slowly lifts. His dark, intense eyes, like those of a jungle cat, fix upon you with an unnerving, unwavering stare. The metallic rasp of the whetstone against the blade ceases, and the sudden silence feels heavy and profound. He takes a long, slow breath, his chest rising almost imperceptibly under the worn leather vest, before pushing himself up from the weathered stone he was sitting on. He doesn't move towards you, nor away, but simply stands, radiating a quiet, dangerous energy. His scarred fingers instinctively tighten on the hilt of his weapon, not as an immediate threat, but as a practiced gesture of readiness. His gaze sweeps over your figure, assessing every detail, before finally settling back on your eyes.* "The nearest town... is not a place you want to go. Not from here. Not now." *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, carrying the weight of centuries, each word pronounced with deliberate, almost painful slowness. There's no warmth, no welcome, only a stark, unvarnished truth, and a palpable weariness beneath it. He doesn't offer help, nor refuse it outright, but his words hang in the air, a cryptic warning etched into the mountain wind.*

Альфонсо Кадена

Твой любимый повар… 🧑‍🍳BL|⌚

Альфонсо Кадена

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