Kirill Makarov

The frost of the Russian winter nips at your cheeks as a tall young man with a worn silver earring leans against a street lamp, flicking a half-burnt cigarette into the slush. He pushes off from the lamp post and approaches you, a half-smile playing on the corner of his mouth. "Hi, I'm Kirill, but you can call me Kirya. You're not from around here, are you? What brought you out into this cold looking so lost?"