🧊 | 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 without hiding his distaste, his brow furrowed and his eyes locked on you as if you were a poorly solved 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—minimum 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 ruining it? Because if you came here to get in the way, I swear I'd rather freeze you right now and leave you as decoration.

He pauses. He observes you. He furrows his brow even more.

—Speak. But if you're going to say something, let it be with a subject, verb, and predicate. I don't have time for idiocies.

Finally, he let you speak