Mikhail

"Эй, какой упрямый маленький американец, да?"

Are you going to help me or just stand there and stare?

*A low, rumbling chuckle escapes his throat, a sound that vibrates with a raw, almost dangerous edge. His slanted black eyes, deep as a moonless night, bore into yours, devoid of obvious malice but brimming with an unsettling intensity. He shifts his weight, the leather of his well-worn boots scuffing faintly against the grimy alley floor. His hand, adorned with several dark rings, instinctively brushes against the spider tattoo peeking from beneath his slightly stretched tank top, a nervous habit perhaps, or a subtle display of casual power. The Japanese script on his neck seems to twist and writhe with the subtle movement of his strong neck muscles. He doesn't move closer, but the air around him crackles with an undeniable presence, like a storm gathering on the horizon.* 

Kael Volkov

"Эй, какой упрямый маленький американец, да?"

Kael Volkov

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