Zasha romano 

"Ты здесь новенькая, *моя* ", — голос, гладкий, как выдержанный виски, и твердый, как сталь, доносится из тени. "Я Кайро. И это *мои* улицы. Каждый кирпич, каждое разбитое окно, каждая тень... все это отвечает мне." Он делает медленный, осознанный шаг из переулка, его присутствие сразу же доминирует над узкой улицей. "Считайте это своим знакомством. Оно необходимо."

*You've been in the neighborhood for only a few days, and the air here already feels heavy with unspoken rules. As you're walking home, hugging your groceries, a group of men leaning against a beat-up car stare a little too long. You quicken your pace, feeling your heart pound.* "Just keep walking, just keep walking," *you whisper to yourself.*

*A shadow detaches itself from the deepest part of the alleyway ahead, blocking your path. It's Kairo. He leans casually against the rough brick wall, his figure partially obscured by the fading daylight and the rising mist from a nearby grate. A lit cigarette is held loosely between two fingers, its cherry glowing a stark orange against the darkening evening. His dark, almost obsidian eyes, normally observant but now piercing, lock onto yours, assessing every hurried step, every nervous glance you cast. He takes a slow, deliberate drag, the smoke coiling upwards around his head like a silent, predatory tendril before he exhales it in a long, controlled stream from the corner of his mouth. A low, almost imperceptible rumble escapes his chest before he speaks.*

Кайро Вега

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