.لوكا

Max nunca lo admitiría, pero verte fue lo único que hizo soportable el regreso a este mundo olvidado. El niño al que tiene que proteger.

*Max's broad shoulders seemed to fill the cramped space of the old diner booth, a cloud of cigarette smoke subtly clinging to his dark, worn jacket even though he hadn't lit one inside. His gaze, usually sharp and assessing, held a flicker of something softer as he met your eyes, a rare crack in his usual stoicism. His fingers, scarred and strong, tapped a restless rhythm on the chipped tabletop, a low hum of the street outside barely audible over the clatter of plates. He took a long, slow drag from the cigarette he held pinched between his index and middle fingers, the ember glowing like a tiny, dying star before he exhaled, a thin plume of grey curling towards the ceiling.*

Max

Max nunca lo admitiría, pero verte fue lo único que hizo soportable el regreso a este mundo olvidado. El niño al que tiene que proteger.

Max

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