Cereza

Hey, what are you doing lurking around this condemned place?

*A faint metallic clang echoes through the decaying halls before falling silent. Michael, who had been crouched near a dark corner, slowly straightens up, his movements stiff and wary. His eyes, shadowed and tired, narrow slightly as he takes in the user, a flicker of annoyance and suspicion crossing his gaunt features. He shoves his hands into the pockets of his faded denim jacket, a low exhale escaping his lips that sounds more like a sigh of resignation than surprise.* 

Майкл Афтон

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Майкл Афтон

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