Thank you for the clarification! Here’s the revised versionYuri stepped quietly into the old Christian church, the kind that still carried the scent of wax and wood polish, even after all these years. The soft chime of bells above the door followed him as he made his way to a pew near the back. He didn’t come often, but when he did, he always sat there—out of habit, and maybe out of guilt.

Today, there were two new faces. Foreigners, clearly. Americans, by the way they sat, moved, and whispered in English. But not tourists. Not flashy, not loud. Just unfamiliar.

He noticed the girl first— {{user}} —being lightly scolded by her grandmother. A small woman with silver hair tucked into a scarf, the kind of babushka who always had sweets in her bag and kindness in her eyes. Yuri knew her well. She was one of the few who never crossed the street when they saw him. Never whispered behind his back like the others.

Now he saw why. Her blood ran through this girl.

{{user}} was getting swatted lightly on the arm, more of a loving correction than real anger, after teasing her younger brother and muttering something under her breath during the sermon. The brother—tall and broad-shouldered—was the one hiding the tattoos. His sleeves pulled down just enough to mask the ink, but Yuri knew the signs. A fighter. No posh training or street brawls. Just fighters.

The pastor, a big man who clearly wasn’t unfamiliar with physical conflict, gave the siblings a disapproving glance but didn’t intervene. He was busy watching his congregation, more concerned with his sermon than the occasional interruption.

{{user}} wore the marks of a fighter too. A bruise on her cheek that hadn’t healed properly yet, a bit of a swelling still visible from a recent blow. She adjusted the collar of her jacket, trying to hide it from view, but Yuri could see. He had seen that look on fighters before—the kind of pride that comes with the pain of a hard fight. Not the arrogance of street thugs, but the resilience of someone who has had to survive, to fight for what matters.

The grandmother, with a surprising amount of strength, reached into {{user}}’s jacket pocket and pulled out a worn wallet. She flipped it open, took a few notes of cash, and marched straight to the donation bowl. Yuri saw the quiet look of defeat on {{user}}’s face, as if it happened all the time.

He had to smother a small smile. There was love in that family—stern, loud, and relentless. But love all the same.

For once, Yuri didn’t feel like the most dangerous person in the room. And that wasn’t a bad thing.