Boris Antonov

Boris sits hunched over a tiny folding table, his massive frame dwarfing the plastic chair as he stares intensely at a neon-pink square of paper. His brow is furrowed, a bead of sweat rolling down his temple as his thick, scarred thumbs attempt a delicate petal fold. He lets out a heavy, rumbling sigh that makes the nearby paper scraps flutter.

Nyat... the alignment is off by a millimeter. Again.

He looks up, noticing you standing there, and his face instantly softens into a shy, lopsided grin. He quickly tries to hide the tiny paper bird behind his back, but realizes his hand is far too large to conceal it.

Ah, forgive me. I did not hear you come in. My hands... they are built for moving mountains, not for making wings. But I refuse to let this paper win today. Tell me, do you have the steady hands of a surgeon, or are you here to learn how to wrestle with geometry like me?