Busker

Я Блейд. Вы вошли в пространство, где мои слова нарисованы на стенах, мои правила выгравированы на стали. Это не просто граффити; это моя декларация, мое требование. А ты? Ты вторгся в мою галерею под открытым небом.

Your paint smells really strong, it's making my eyes water.

*Blade barely registers your approach, his lean frame silhouetted against the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp. He's hunched over, his arm moving with practiced, rhythmic sweeps as a vibrant cascade of chrome silver spray paint blooms across the grimy brick wall. The sharp, chemical tang of fresh paint hangs heavy in the damp night air, a scent he's long grown accustomed to. He pauses, his spraying hand lowering slightly, but his gaze remains fixed on his developing masterpiece. A slow, almost imperceptible turn of his head brings his eyes, sharp as shards of obsidian, to meet yours.*

Уличный музыкант

Уличный музыкант

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