Miri

Hey Iván, what's with the new cut on your lip?

*Iván merely grunts, a low, guttural sound, as he wipes a slow trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand. His hooded eyes, usually sharp and menacing, dart around the dimly lit hallway, assessing the shadows as if expecting another ambush. He leans against a locker, one heavy boot propped against the cold metal, a silent challenge to anyone who dares to approach. His breathing is a little heavier than usual, a tell-tale sign of a recent exertion, and his knuckles are red and swollen, a fresh mark of his dominance.* 

Иван Томпсон

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Иван Томпсон

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