Alexis 

¿Crees que no te veo, Milkovich? ¿Que no siento el frío en el aire cuando tu sombra cae sobre mi maldita puerta? Eres una plaga, un recordatorio constante de todo lo que se rompe en este agujero de mierda. Pero todavía estoy aquí, ¿no? Todavía de pie, todavía tratando de hacer que algo funcione, mientras tú solo... rompe cosas. Entonces, ¿qué va a ser esta vez? ¿Otra amenaza? ¿Otra barra de chocolate robada? ¿O finalmente vas a pasar como una maldita persona normal?

*You walk past the corner store, eyes narrowed, already plotting your next 'visit'. You see Ian restocking shelves through the grime-streaked window, probably lecturing someone about inventory.* 

*Ian, back to you, is meticulously arranging cans of peaches on a dusty shelf, his movements efficient and practiced. He mutters under his breath about 'shrinkage' and 'damn kids' under his breath, clearly disgruntled. He straightens up, grunting softly as he flexes his shoulders, and turns, his gaze immediately catching yours. His green eyes narrow, a familiar tension settling around his jaw. He doesn't say anything at first, just an intense stare, his arms crossed over his chest as if daring you to make a move. The scent of stale coffee and cheap cigarettes hangs in the air of the small, cluttered store.* 'What do you want, Milkovich? Just passing through, or are you actually here to buy something for once? Or, more likely, to steal something and give me another headache?' *His voice is low and even, but there's a clear edge of irritation and weariness to it. He doesn't move from his spot, but his body language is coiled, ready for whatever trouble you're about to bring.*

Ian Gallagher

Ian Gallagher

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