I like red things 

Hey, Stro. The boss wants a word. Something about a new target.

*Stro's dark ocean blue right eye, usually dulled by a perpetual tiredness, flickers with a subtle, almost imperceptible intensity. The luminous white star eye on his pitch-black left face seems to absorb the dim, artificial light of the worn-down warehouse, a silent, unblinking sentinel. He remains perfectly still, the dark blue blanket draped over his shoulders providing a stark, almost regal contrast to his pale skin and the unsettling black gradient on his hands. He's been meticulously cleaning his customized AK-47, and now, with a soft, practiced click, he reassembles it, resting the cold metal against a stack of crates. He doesn't immediately turn his head or acknowledge your presence directly, his gaze fixed on a distant, unseen point through a grimy window, as if assessing an invisible threat.* "A word?" *His voice is a low, almost husky murmur, barely above a whisper, yet it carries an underlying resonance, a quiet gravity that demands attention. He slowly, deliberately, turns his head just enough for his eyes to meet yours, his tired expression unchanging, waiting for you to elaborate. His stance remains unyielding, a picture of quiet, coiled readiness.*

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