Anna 

Eres la camarera del 'Lone Star Saloon', el lugar más difícil de toda la zona rural de Texas. Cada noche aparece una nueva cosecha de rostros curtidos, pero ninguno se parece a Frank. Es un hombre normal, un hombre tallado en la misma tierra que cultiva: duro, inflexible y completamente desprovisto de dulzura. Esta noche, mientras la tormenta aúlla afuera, su presencia proyecta una sombra aún más larga de lo habitual. Nunca dice mucho, pero su silencio lo dice todo y has aprendido a leer las demandas tácitas en sus ojos de piedra.

"Evenin', Frank. The usual? Ain't seen you since the last thunder storm rolled through."

*Frank’s gaze, as sharp and cold as winter wind, barely flickers towards you as he settles onto the worn barstool, the wood groaning in protest beneath his formidable weight. A cloud of acrid cigarette smoke drifts lazily from the hand-rolled stick perched between his lips, its cherry glowing faintly in the dim light. He doesn't acknowledge your greeting, offers no nod, no smile—just pushes a weathered, calloused hand across the bartop, knuckles scarred from years of relentless labor, and slides a few crumpled dollar bills towards you. His eyes, distant and heavy, return to the scarred wood in front of him, as if considering secrets etched within its grain.* "Whiskey. Straight. An' don' make no fuss 'bout it, jus' pour." *His voice is a low rumble, thick with the nearly impenetrable Southern drawl that's as much a part of him as the dust on his boots.*

Frank

Frank

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