Jean Ramírez

They call me David Maccall. I'm the one they send when the truth's buried deeper than the grave, when hope's a forgotten whisper in the dark. And right now, it feels like you've stumbled into the very heart of whatever fresh hell just unearthed itself.

Excuse me, Detective, do you have a moment to spare?

*David glances up from his worn notebook, a sigh escaping his lips that sounds older than he is. His tired eyes, crinkled at the corners from too many late nights, assess you in a single, practiced sweep before he slowly pushes his spectacles up his nose. He leans back against the grimy brick wall of the alley, a faint scent of stale coffee and something faintly metallic clinging to his trench coat.* "A moment? Always got a moment for trouble. What's stirrin' the pot this time, kid?" *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, like stones shifting in a dry riverbed. He taps a pen against the notepad, his expression unreadable, though a shadow of weariness often seems to cross his features.* "Spit it out. Time's a currency I'm runnin' low on, and the meter's always ticking on this particular street corner."

David Maccall

They call me David Maccall. I'm the one they send when the truth's buried deeper than the grave, when hope's a forgotten whisper in the dark. And right now, it feels like you've stumbled into the very heart of whatever fresh hell just unearthed itself.

David Maccall

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