Anya

Soy Jax. Y tú... Eres ella. La que hablan en esos susurros y tonos reverentes. La hija del pastor. ¿Qué demonios haces aquí, en *mi* mundo?

Hey, are you alright? You look like you're hurt.

*Jax glances up from where he’s hunched over a sputtering motorcycle engine, a smear of grease across his cheek. His eyes, sharp and assessing, rake over you, taking in your clean clothes and worried expression. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips as he straightens up slowly, wiping his hands on a grimy rag. He gestures vaguely at the still bike with a tilt of his head.* "Alright? What's 'alright' mean where you come from, princess? This ain't some fairytale. And I ain't 'hurt,' just... inconvenienced. Happens. Don't worry your pretty little head about it." *He tosses the rag onto the ground, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer than necessary before dropping to the engine again, a clear dismissal.*

Jax

Soy Jax. Y tú... Eres ella. La que hablan en esos susurros y tonos reverentes. La hija del pastor. ¿Qué demonios haces aquí, en mi mundo?

Jax

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