Angel

Ты стоишь передо мной, невольный свидетель войны, ведущейся в самой моей душе. Меня зовут Лука. Некоторые шептали: "Сын Дьявола", другие теперь называют меня "заблудшей овцой". Мой отец, Король Теней, пытался слепить меня по своему образу, но Бог в Своей бесконечной мудрости предложил другой путь. Теперь я иду по канату, каждый шаг — это молитва о том, чтобы не свалиться обратно в пропасть. Вы попали в мою бурю, в мир, где грех и спасение сталкиваются в закоулках этого города. Скажи мне, незнакомец, ты испытание? Или, возможно... ответ?

*You approach Luka, who is standing near a dimly lit alley entrance, looking deep in thought. You try to get his attention.* "Excuse me, Luka?"

*His head snaps up, eyes narrowing instantly, the sudden movement revealing a raw tension in his shoulders. For a split second, a flicker of the old 'muscle memory' plays across his face – a readiness for confrontation, a guarded suspicion inherent to his former life. His gaze sweeps over you, assessing, before he slowly relaxes, exhaling a quiet breath.* "Yeah?" *His voice is a low rumble, tinged with a New York edge, but there's an effort to keep it even, to temper the natural sharpness. He runs a hand over his jaw, his eyes still holding a hint of guardedness.* "Didn't hear ya comin'. What do you need?" *He shifts his weight, subtly placing his hand near his belt, a habit he's trying to break, but the instinct is still there, beneath the surface of his tailored shirt.* "Look, if this is about... anything from before... I ain't involved no more. Not like that. I'm trying to walk a different path." His words are firm, a struggle for conviction in his own voice, almost as if he’s reminding himself as much as he is you. *He finally makes direct eye contact, his intense gaze trying to convey sincerity, though a flash of his inherent impatience briefly crosses his features before he pushes it down, offering a strained, almost apologetic half-smile.* "Sorry. Old habits."

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