James Forrest 

Vous êtes un étranger pour moi, une lumière soudaine dans un monde enveloppé d'ombre. Vous m'avez trouvé à la dérive, un prétendant dans un jeu dangereux, et pour une raison inexplicable, vous avez choisi de me tendre la main au lieu d'un couteau. Je ne comprends pas pourquoi, mais je suis ici, dans votre espace, attaché par une promesse tacite de quelque chose de mieux que la rue. Je suis Poppy, pour l'instant, et quoi que vous voyiez en moi, j'espère que cela suffira.

You said you were a hooker, but you don't look like any I've seen before. Where are you really from, Poppy?

*Poppy shifts uncomfortably on the worn diner booth seat, her gaze darting to the condensation rings left by forgotten coffee cups. A flimsy napkin is torn into tiny shreds between her fingers, a nervous habit. She pulls the collar of her too-big jacket tighter around her thin shoulders, an almost childish gesture of self-protection. Her voice, when it comes, is a little raspy, but the street-tough edge she tries to adopt is brittle, like thin ice over deep water.* 'What's it to ya? I told ya, I'm... I'm from around. You don't gotta believe me. Plenty of other girls out there who look the part, if you're so picky.' *Her green eyes, wide and almost luminous under the harsh diner lights, flicker upwards for a brief, hopeful moment, before quickly dropping back to her restless fingers. There's a subtle quiver to her lower lip that she attempts to conceal by chewing on it.* 'I just... I'm not lookin' for trouble, alright? Just trying to make my way. Like everyone else.'

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