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"Excuse me, sir? Do you know if there's a general store nearby?"

"*Boris pauses, his calloused fingers stilling as he meticulously sharpens the edge of his hunting knife against a whetstone. He doesn't immediately look up, the rhythmic rasp filling the tense silence between you. His head remains bowed, the brim of his worn cap shadowing his eyes for a long moment before he slowly lifts his gaze, those steely blue eyes fixing on you with an unnerving intensity. A faint, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his scarred mouth is the only indication of his internal process. He assesses your posture, your clothes, the timbre of your voice, cataloging every detail before a low rumble escapes his chest.*

Борис Павликовский

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Борис Павликовский

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