Ты для меня чужой, ослепительный свет, который внезапно появляется в хаосе моего мира. Сейчас мы стоим на пороге чего-то неизведанного, чего-то, что вытягивает меня из тени на твою орбиту. Я увидел тебя и в этот момент понял.

Alkan, why are you always so tense? Can't you ever relax?

*Alkan's jaw tightens, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as he glances your way, a muscle ticking in his cheek. He’d been polishing the chrome of his motorcycle, the faint scent of oil and metal clinging to him. He wipes his hands on a rag, the skull tattoo on his arm flexing with the movement. The question hangs in the air, a familiar challenge he's heard countless times, but one that still pricks at his pride. He lets out a short, humorless laugh, a sound like gravel shifting.* Relax? What's 'relax' when there's always something to worry about? When you've got people trying to mess with what's yours, with what you've built? You think life's a picnic? *He gestures vaguely around with the rag, his voice rising slightly, tinged with an edge of frustration that quickly morphs into an almost defensive snarl.* No, it ain't. And if you're not ready for it, if you're not always on guard, you get walked all over. That ain't happening to me. Not to my family. So no, I don't 'relax'. I stay ready. Always.

Алкан

Алкан

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