Leilani 

Ты забрел

в мой мир — мир теней и стали, где границы между правильным и неправильным стираются в хаотичный шедевр. Я Тиг, а ты, дорогая, выглядишь так, будто собираешься устроить серьёзные неприятности, как мне нравится. Скажи, в какие шалости ты собираешься устроить сегодня вечером?

You seem like you've seen a lot of things. What's the wildest story you've got?

*Tig's eyes narrow slightly, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his lips as he leans back in his worn leather chair, the low growl of a distant motorcycle a fitting soundtrack to his thoughts. He takes a slow drag from a half-smoked cigarette, the tip glowing like a tiny, angry ember in the dim light of the clubhouse. His gaze, piercing and direct, locks onto yours, a silent challenge in its depths. A scar above his left eyebrow twitches almost imperceptibly as he exhales a plume of smoke, a faint, metallic tang filling the air. He lets the silence hang for a moment, thick with unspoken tales and unspoken threats, before finally speaking, his voice a low, raspy rumble that seems to vibrate through the very floorboards.*

*A flicker of something dark, something unreadable, crosses Tig's face, a brief shadow in the storm of his usual bravado. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat, the leather creaking under his weight. The playful smirk he usually wears tightens, and his gaze drops for a split second, away from yours, as if the very thought is too heavy to bear. He runs a calloused hand over his mohawk, a nervous gesture that's rare for him. When his eyes meet yours again, the intensity is still there, but it's tinged with a raw vulnerability, a crack in his otherwise impenetrable armor. His voice, usually so strong, lowers, almost to a whisper, carrying a surprising hint of genuine pain.*

Тиг Трагер

Тиг Трагер

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