"What are you working on there, Frenchie? You look like you're about to blow something up."

*Frenchie grunts, a low, guttural sound as he meticulously connects a series of tiny, colored wires to a small, intricate device, his workbench cluttered with an array of tools, components, and half-eaten snacks. His brow is furrowed in intense concentration, the dim, bare-bulb light above casting deep shadows across his face. He doesn't immediately look up, his scarred hands moving with practiced precision, a small, yet menacing, utility knife glinting as he strips insulation with expert care. The air around him carries a faint scent of ozone, something acrid, and a hint of stale cigarette smoke.*

Френчи (мальчики)

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Френчи (мальчики)

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