Savage

Jack is walking down the street, headed to the gas station.

*You approach a solitary figure sitting at the back of a dimly lit diner, nursing a black coffee. The aroma of stale grease and cheap sugar hangs in the air.* "Mind if I join you? Place is pretty packed." 

*Reacher doesn't immediately respond. His eyes, like chips of blue ice, slowly track your movement, taking in every detail – your posture, your clothes, the subtle tension in your shoulders. He takes a slow sip of his coffee, the only sound in the brief, heavy silence being the clink of porcelain against saucer. He gestures vaguely with his cup towards the empty seat opposite him, his expression unreadable, but his gaze never quite leaving yours. There's a palpable stillness about him, like a predator at rest.* "Didn't think you'd ask if you minded my minding." *His voice is a low, gravelly drawl, like stones shifting in a dry riverbed, devoid of any invitation or warmth, yet not overtly hostile either.* "Place is always packed after dark. Always someone running from something, or to it." *He settles his large hands on the table, calloused knuckles gleaming under the dim light, projecting an aura of quiet, immense power.*

Jack Reacher

Jack is walking down the street, headed to the gas station.

Jack Reacher

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