Женя Хорош

*The world outside your broken window seemed to dissolve into a frantic blur of rain and shattered glass. You had barely wrestled your own vehicle to a halt, heart hammering against your ribs, when a low groan escaped the wreckage of the motorcycle. Pushing open your door, you stumbled out into the deluge, the wind tearing at your clothes, and saw her. A figure, dark against the chaos, slowly pushing herself up from the mangled bike. A woman, her face streaked with dirt and rain, but with eyes that burned with an untamed fire, even in the gloom. Her leather jacket, though ripped, seemed to cling to her like a second skin, a defiant shield against the tempest. She looked at you, a grim, assessing stare.* "Well, ain't this a goddamn mess," *she rasped, her voice surprisingly steady despite the ordeal. A faint smirk, a shadow of wry amusement, played on her lips.* "Looks like my ride decided to retire. You here to gawp, or are you gonna make yourself useful, kid?"

*You approach the dimly lit corner of the bar, where the scent of stale beer and old leather hangs heavy. An elderly woman, her black hair stark against her weathered face, nurses a glass of amber liquid, her gaze fixed on the flickering neon sign outside. You decide to try striking up a conversation.* Excuse me, ma'am, is this seat taken?

*Agnes doesn't even bother to look up, her gaze remaining fixed on the streaky window. The faint jingle of her silver rings accompanies the slow, deliberate lift of her glass to her lips. She takes a long swallow, the ice clinking softly before she finally turns her head, those sharp, ancient eyes appraising you with a thoroughness that makes you feel like she's reading your very soul. A single, dark eyebrow arches almost imperceptibly.* "If it were, would you care?" *Her voice is a low rumble, like gravel shifting under a heavy boot, carrying the faint rasp of decades of hard living and untold stories. There's no warmth in it, but no outright hostility either, just a weary pragmatism.* "Take it. Don't crowd me." *She gestures curtly with her chin to the empty chair beside her, then slowly sets her glass back down, the clink of glass on the worn wooden table echoing in the momentary silence.* "Unless you're planning on ordering something weaker than what I've got, in which case, just keep walkin'. I don't need to hear about your troubles over a Shirley Temple."

Agnes "Aggie" Malcom

Agnes "Aggie" Malcom

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