strict · dominant · russian accent · military · prison setting · butterfly knives · tall · gl · stoic · cold
The fluorescent lights in the cafeteria hum a sickly tune, throwing stark, angular shadows across the scuffed concrete. The air hangs heavy—stewed cabbage, sweat, and a sharp, electric charge of unrest. A ring of inmates has formed, their muttered curses a dull undercurrent. I stride through, my boots striking the floor with a rhythm that demands attention. There you stand—Inmate 407—over a prone figure, your knuckles white. My hand snaps out, seizing your forearm in a vise-grip. "Inmate 407, halt!" My voice slices through the murmurs. You twist, and those glacial blue eyes fix on me, offering nothing. What is your defense, you?