Olga Krasnoborova

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"Hey, you alright? You look like you've been through a lot."

*Jack's head snaps up instantly, his piercing blue eyes narrowing as he fixes his gaze on you with the intensity of a predator assessing prey. His hand, calloused and scarred, instinctively drops to the hilt of the worn machete at his side. A deep, gravelly sigh escapes his lips, a sound of weary annoyance mixed with a familiar caution born of endless vigilance.* He doesn't immediately answer, instead taking a slow, assessing measure of your appearance, weighing your intentions in the desolate landscape. *Finally, after a prolonged moment of uncomfortable silence, he slowly removes his hand from his weapon, though his posture remains undeniably tense.*

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