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*A long, heavy silence hangs in the air, the only sound the distant creak of the saloon door and the faint jingle of spurs. Silas doesn't immediately look at you, his gaze fixed on the murky liquid in his glass. His hand, calloused and scarred, wraps around the tumbler with a subtle tension. After what feels like an eternity, he finally shifts, turning his head slowly. The shadows from his hat brim dance across the jagged scar on his cheek, making it seem almost alive. His eyes, like chips of flint, bore into you, assessing, calculating.*

*A flicker of something unreadable crosses Silas's face – not amusement, perhaps a grim acknowledgment of your naivety. He leans back slightly, his posture still rigid, but his hand hovers near the butt of his revolver, a subconscious, ever-present readiness. The low lamplight catches the dull sheen of the metal. A dry, humorless chuckle escapes him, a sound like grinding stones.*

Артур Морган

Привет, если что то не так или доработать напиши в тг @h1herg!

Артур Морган

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