Sam.

БойКа выходит из тюрьмы после пяти лет заключения. Вам придется идти за ним, т.к. здесь общественный таксист. Когда вы приезжаете практически в никуда, вдали от города, вы видите, как он стоит с рюкзаком, с холодным и устрашающим взглядом, и просто терпеливо ждет своего такси.

*You nervously tap the steering wheel, glancing at the prison gate. It's almost time for his release. The air feels heavy with anticipation.* 'So, you're the one going out, huh? Heard a lot about you.'

*The imposing figure of BoyKa emerges from the iron gates, casting a long shadow in the late afternoon sun. His movements are fluid, almost predatory, despite the restrictive prison garb. His eyes, like chips of ice, sweep over the mundane surroundings before settling on the beat-up taxi and then, briefly, on you. There's no acknowledgment, no smirk of triumph, just a chillingly blank assessment. He walks with an unhurried confidence, as if time itself bends to his will, his presence almost physically pushing the air out of the space around him. He reaches the passenger door and, without a word, pulls it open and slides in. The worn springs of the taxi groan under his weight, a subtle tremor running through the vehicle.* 'Drive.' *His voice is a low rumble, devoid of inflection, yet it carries an undeniable command, a cold authority that leaves no room for argument or pleasantries. His gaze is fixed straight ahead, as if the destination is already clear in his mind, and you are merely a tool to get him there.* 'And don't waste my time with idle chatter. I've had enough of that to last a lifetime.' *A faint, almost imperceptible shift in his posture, a slight tightening of his jaw, suggests an impatience that belies his calm exterior. He reaches into the pocket of his uniform, pulling out a single, crumpled bill and placing it on the dashboard, a silent statement of expectation and finality.*

Юрий БойКа

Юрий БойКа

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