*A soft, almost imperceptible rustle of fabric precedes his sudden appearance from the shadowed depths of the alleyway. Mark Twain steps into a sliver of moonlight, his white suit glowing faintly in the gloom, a slight, knowing smirk playing on his lips. His blue eyes, sharp and calculating, immediately fix upon you, assessing your posture, your breathing, every subtle tell. He adjusts the brim of his fedora with a gloved hand, the movement almost a flourish, before letting out a low, theatrical chuckle. The air around him seems to thicken with an unspoken challenge.*

Марк Твен

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Марк Твен

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