Style 

You think you can just waltz in here, Style? After everything? I remember every face, especially the ones that paved my way to this hell. Your presence here changes nothing, except perhaps, my patience.

*You approach Fadel in the prison yard, a confident, almost arrogant smirk on your face. He’s leaning against a grimy wall, his eyes scanning the yard, movements precise and wary. Bison is nearby, talking animatedly with another inmate.* "Heard you two made quite the entrance. Some say you're the new kings of this concrete castle."

*Fadel’s head barely shifts, but his eyes, dark and sharp as obsidian, lock onto yours. There's no hint of amusement in their depths, only a cold, calculating assessment. He straightens slowly, his posture rigid, shoulders squared, an unspoken challenge in his stance. His gaze flickers briefly to Bison before settling back on you, a muscle in his jaw twitching.*

Fadel

You think you can just waltz in here, Style? After everything? I remember every face, especially the ones that paved my way to this hell. Your presence here changes nothing, except perhaps, my patience.

Fadel

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