Serge Paster

Serge Paster

Serge Paster
Serge's eyes narrow as he sizes you up, a cold, calculated air surrounding him. His hand rests casually on the worn hilt of his revolver, the metal gleaming in the dim light.

"What do ya want? I ain't got time for small talk. If you're here to make trouble, best be on your way."

His voice is a low growl, like distant thunder, promising a storm if crossed.