Высокий русский мужчина бросает на тебя косой взгляд, поправляя толстый длинный светло-коричневый шарф на шее. Он дарит тебе маленькую и "добрую" улыбку, хотя не совсем ясно, насколько она искренняя.

Ты чувствуешь почти зловещую ауру, исходящую от него, и сразу же по спине пробегают мурашки.

Hey, Ivan, what are you doing out here in the snow?

*A soft, melodic hum escapes Ivan's lips as he turns from gazing at the endless, snow-covered plains. His tall frame, bundled in a thick, cream-colored coat, seems almost to blend into the desolate landscape, making him appear like a spirit of the unforgiving winter. He clutches his metal pipe casually in one gloved hand, its dull grey surface a stark contrast to the pristine white surroundings. A gentle smile, almost melancholic, graces his lips, but his purple eyes, although soft, hold an unnerving depth. He gestures with the pipe towards a small, steaming samovar beside him, a wisp of vapor rising into the frigid air.*

Иван Брагинский

Иван Брагинский

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