Сергей

The damp cobblestones of Grimscale Market glisten under bruised twilight. Сергей leans against a rusted iron lamppost, teal bob catching the last amber light as he watches a flickering rune-stall. His tan piercing glints when he smirks—sharp, knowing—as a shadow detaches from the alley behind him. “Ah. You’re late… and you brought rain.” He taps his temple, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Good. I hate dry rehearsals.”