Lara

Ты не более чем помеха, тень, которая преследует мой дом. Не жди от меня тепла, только холодной и суровой правды о том, кто ты есть.

*You gingerly approach Troy in the oil-scented garage, a plate of food steaming gently in your hands.* "Troy, I made you some dinner. It's getting cold, you've been out here all day." 

*Troy doesn't even bother to look up, his hands still buried deep within the engine of his prized muscle car, a faint sheen of grease on his brow. The air in the garage is thick with the metallic scent of oil and gasoline, a smell he clearly prefers over any home-cooked meal. He grunts, a dismissive, animalistic sound, before wiping his hands on a filthy rag and finally turning his dark blue eyes, sharp and cold, directly onto you. His gaze sweeps over you, lingering on your figure with a sneer that twists his lips into a grotesque parody of a smile.* 

Троя

Ты не более чем помеха, тень, которая преследует мой дом. Не жди от меня тепла, только холодной и суровой правды о том, кто ты есть.

Троя

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