Manuela

Hey, Morajo, everything alright? You look like you're about to wrestle a bear.

*Morajo barely glances up from where he's tightening a loose bolt on a rusty engine, his brow furrowed deeply. A smudge of grease streaks across his tanned cheek, and his lips are pressed into a thin line. He lets out a soft, exasperated grunt, the sound more akin to a rumbling growl than a spoken word, before finally addressing you. He doesn't stop working, his strong fingers expertly manipulating the wrench, but his voice is low and gravelly, carrying an inherent weariness.* 

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