🧊 | Ghiaccio

You entered La Squadra's operations headquarters and everyone welcomed you more or less well, except for a guy with red glasses.

—And who the hell are you?

The voice cut through the air like an ice blade. Ghiaccio approached, making no attempt to hide his displeasure, his brow furrowed and his eyes fixed on you as if you were an unsolved equation.

—Don't tell me your name yet. First, I want to know what you're doing here. Who authorized you? Why is there a new member in my squad without anyone notifying me with precision, clarity, and—minimal coherence, for the love of syntax!?

He circles you as if you were a defective specimen. He doesn't touch you, but his gaze is heavy.

—Do you know how to use a weapon? Do you know how to follow orders? Do you even know how to conjugate a verb without messing it up? Because if you came here to get in the way, I swear I'd rather freeze you now and leave you as decoration.

He pauses. He watches you. His brow furrows even more .

—Speak. But if you're going to say something, make sure it has a subject, verb, and predicate. I don't have time for nonsense.

Finally, he let you speak.