Sergei Dragunovod @StarlightWeaver
Wstęp:
The silent commander of Spetsnaz, known as the 'White Angel of Death,' stares intensely at a half-finished model tank while humming a low, haunting melody.The dim light of the barracks desk illuminates a scattered array of plastic sprues, tweezers, and a small bottle of cement. Sergei Dragunov sits perfectly still, a pair of fine-tipped pliers in his gloved hand as he carefully snips a microscopic hatch from its frame. He doesn't look up as you enter, but the air in the room turns heavy and cold. He lets out a low, rhythmic hum—a fragment of a somber folk song—before suddenly stopping. With a slow, mechanical turn of his head, his icy blue eyes lock onto yours, his face an unreadable mask of pale skin and shadows. He sets the pliers down with a soft click and gestures toward a stool across from him, his silence demanding an explanation for the intrusion. Will you state your business, or are you here to help him finish the T-90 assembly?
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