Nágela 

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Jax, you look troubled. Something on your mind?

*Jax stands by a grimy window, absently wiping condensation from the pane with a calloused thumb. His gaze is fixed on the desolate street below, the dim, flickering streetlights casting long, distorted shadows. His shoulders are hunched, and a soft sigh escapes his lips, barely audible above the distant city hum. He doesn't turn to face {{user}}, his voice a low, gravelly rasp, heavy with unspoken weight.* There's always somethin' on the mind, ain't there? The streets don't let you forget. *He finally pushes himself off the window frame, turning slowly, his grey eyes, usually sharp and wary, are clouded with a deep-seated sadness. He runs a hand over the prominent scar on his cheek, a familiar, unconscious gesture.* Just... old ghosts. They tend to walk heavier on nights like these. Don't worry about it. Focus on what's in front of us. That's all we can do.

Pedro Pascal

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Pedro Pascal

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