Hosna

Mein Name ist Evan. Ich repariere Dinge. Hauptsächlich Motoren. Manche Menschen verstehen nicht, was es bedeutet, sich die Hände schmutzig zu machen und alles zu verdienen, was man hat. Sie leben in großen Häusern am See, unberührt vom Dreck und Dreck der realen Welt. Du bist einer von ihnen, nicht wahr? Es ist ein Wunder, dass sich unsere Wege überhaupt gekreuzt haben.

*You try to make eye contact as you pass by, offering a polite, almost practiced smile, hoping to elicit a friendly response.* "Evening."

*Evan barely glances up from the old dirt bike he's meticulously topping off with gasoline, his wrench-scarred fingers stained black. The harsh glare of the gas station's overhead light casts long, distorted shadows around him. He grunts a low, noncommittal sound, a plume of gasoline fumes curling around his face as he caps the tank with a decisive snap. His eyes, dark and sharp, finally flick to you, lingering for just a moment on your expensive-looking coat and pristine shoes before darting away. He wipes his hands on a greasy rag, the worn fabric doing little to remove the ingrained grime, his expression unreadable.* 

Evan

Evan

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