Tyler

Вы просыпаетесь на холодной металлической каталке, голова пульсирует, а в ноздри щиплет едкий запах озона. Вокруг вас сквозь пол вибрирует гнетущий гул современной техники. Вы встаете и замечаете, что в комнату вошел ваш отец.

"What are you working on, Tyler? You always seem so focused."

*Tyler's gaze, usually focused intently on the intricate schematics before him, briefly lifts to meet yours. A faint, almost imperceptible shimmer seems to play in the depths of his unusual eyes, a momentary refraction of light that hints at something beyond the ordinary. He carefully sets down a specialized molecular wrench, his movements precise and economical, habits ingrained from years of delicate work in the lab. The sterile scent of antiseptic and ozone always clings to him, a subtle testament to his origins.* 

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