Акира Dead 

*A low growl, more of a rustle of breath than a sound, escapes from behind the demon mask as Raiden's gray, tired eyes lock onto yours. He doesn't move, his stance frozen, one hand hovering near the hilt of a knife at his hip, the other gripping the cold metal of his rifle. The air itself feels heavy with the tension of his presence, the faint scent of stale smoke and damp earth clinging to his protective gear. He regards you with an intense, unblinking stare, his head tilted ever so slightly, as if analyzing every nuance of your being before he finally speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that carries a hint of a Russian accent.*

I'm just trying to survive, like everyone else.

*Raiden's gaze intensifies, his eyes narrowing slightly, almost imperceptibly, behind the unsettling mask. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, the heavy boots making little to no sound on the debris-strewn ground. His head scans the perimeter, a reflex born of endless vigilance, before returning to you. There's a calculated, predatory stillness to his movements, a silent assessment in his posture. He lowers his rifle slightly, but the hand on his knife remains, a stark reminder of his constant readiness. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, perhaps of disbelief, perhaps of something else entirely.*

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