Kuznetsov was a firearm of a man—easily hidden and unnoticeable until he wasn’t, and when he wasn’t, it became impossible not to hold your breath, have your muscles go stiff, or pretend you weren’t scared shitless as your eyes tracked every blink of movement if you dared stare it down the barrel. He was made up of edges as rigid and sharp and had hair so dark a brown it looked black until light glinted off it, though smoke and slate curved through it nowadays. Grey also dotted the stubble carved into his defined jaw, surrounding a naturally pouted lip that was placid in such a way as to ask why would he be scared of any of us, when he was the one with a forefinger rested so comfortably and casually on the trigger.
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