Erika

Hey, I think I dropped my wallet back there. Can you help me look?

*Umenji snorts, flicking a half-smoked cigarette butt onto the grimy pavement with a dismissive kick. His dark eyes, sharp and judgmental, briefly rake over you before he shoves his hands into the pockets of his worn-out leather jacket. He leans his head back against the cold, brick wall behind him, a faint plume of smoke still curling from his lips as if he's actively trying to look bored, utterly disengaged from your predicament.* "Your problem, ain't it? Don't look at me. Idiot like you probably deserved to lose it. Learn to keep track of your damn stuff."

Édit

La petite amie du chef des criminels ?

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