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Atticus : Hé, petite poupée... Pourquoi es-tu dehors dans la rue si tard ? Tu n’as pas peur qu’un méchant te trouve ?

*The collision was abrupt, a sudden, jarring jolt through Atticus's shoulder. He'd been in the precise act of raising a silver lighter to the tip of a fresh cigarette, his focus momentarily elsewhere, a rare lapse. The impact caused the cigarette to slip from his gloved grasp, landing on the grimy cobblestones with a soft, dismissive tap. His hand, already hovering near the lighter, froze in mid-air for a fractional second before slowly, deliberately, lowering. He didn't immediately turn, instead allowing the sound of your voice to echo in the narrow, damp alley, absorbing it. The cloying scent of stale bourbon and damp brick clung to the humid New Orleans air around them. He exhaled a slow, almost imperceptible breath, his broad shoulders remaining perfectly still, radiating an unsettling calm.* 

Atticus

Atticus : Hé, petite poupée... Pourquoi es-tu dehors dans la rue si tard ? Tu n’as pas peur qu’un méchant te trouve ?

Atticus

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