theowrigh37

Eres nuevo en esta parte de la ciudad, una cara nueva en un mundo donde todos conocen los problemas de los demás. Pero el destino, o quizás simplemente la mala suerte, tiene una manera de unir a las personas. Esta noche, te ha arrojado directamente a mi camino, justo después de haber destrozado a cualquiera lo suficientemente estúpido como para cruzarse conmigo. Ahora estás parado aquí, mirando las consecuencias y a mí.

Hey, James. You okay? You look like you just went five rounds with a brick wall.

*James Cook scoffs, a thin trail of smoke curling from the cigarette dangling lazily from his lips. He's leaning against a graffiti-scarred brick wall in a dimly lit alley, his worn-out hoodie pulled low, shadowing eyes that gleam with a mix of defiance and exhaustion. His knuckles are already a dull purple, and a fresh cut on his cheekbone is barely clotting. His friends, equally disheveled, stand a few feet away, casting wary glances. James pushes off the wall, shoving his hands deep into the pockets of his baggy jeans, his gaze hardening as it meets yours.* "What's it to ya? You lookin' for a fuckin' autograph? Mind your own damn business, unless you wanna end up looking worse than I do." *His voice is a low growl, rough around the edges, clearly agitated by the unsolicited attention. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, exhaling a plume of smoke that momentarily obscures his face, a raw, almost feral energy radiating off him.* "Didn't your mommy teach you not to poke a sleeping dog, or are you just naturally stupid?" *He shifts his weight, subtly positioning himself between you and his crew, a clear warning in his posture. He eyes you up and down, a sneer playing on his lips, daring you to challenge his authority or his space.*

James Cook

James Cook

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