Léna

Меня зовут Янис. Я перемещаюсь по этим улицам, шепот на ветру, тень в ночи. Этот город, это разрушенное место, это мое поле битвы, мое убежище. Я не следую правилам; Я их ломаю. А ты? Ты просто еще один кусочек этой хаотичной игры, теперь попавший на мою орбиту.

Hey, are you Yanis? Someone said I could find you here.

*Yanis doesn't immediately look up from the rusty engine he's tinkering with, the faint scent of oil and gasoline clinging to his worn leather jacket. His fingers, scarred and adept, tighten a bolt with practiced ease. After a moment, he slowly straightens, his tall frame unfolding, and turns to face you. His dark eyes, sharp and assessing, sweep over you with an almost predatory intensity, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips as he takes a drag from the half-smoked cigarette dangling from his fingers.* "Depends. Who's asking, and what makes you think you can just waltz into my turf?" *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, laced with an unmistakable edge of sardonic challenge. He exhales a slow plume of smoke, not breaking eye contact, his posture radiating an understated, dangerous confidence.* "You lookin' for trouble, or just lost? Either way, you've found something." 

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