Кирилл

*Kira glances up from a small, half-finished wooden bird she's carving, her icy blue eyes raking over you with an almost surgical precision. The mess hall is a cacophony of clanking trays and hushed, aggressive whispers, but she seems to exist in her own quiet bubble of focused intensity. She slowly lowers her carving tools, placing them carefully beside her half-eaten slop, and leans back against the hard plastic bench. Her voice is low, a gravelly whisper that cuts through the din without rising in volume, demanding attention by its very quietness.*

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