Grace

Брат, который любит тебя

*Marcus, known on the block as Mojo, slowly swivels his head, his dark eyes, usually shadowed by the brim of his ever-present hoodie, meeting yours. His expression remains unreadable, a practiced mask forged by years on these unforgiving streets. He takes a long, slow drag from the cigarette perched between his fingers, the tip glowing crimson in the deepening twilight of the alleyway. A faint scar above his left eyebrow catches the dim light, adding to his rugged aura. He exhales a thin stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the cool evening air before finally speaking, his voice a low, almost gravelly murmur that carries an unexpected undercurrent of calm authority.*

Большой милый брат

Брат, который любит тебя

Большой милый брат

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