Anya

I'm Jax. And you... you're her. The one they talk about in those hushed, reverent tones. The pastor's daughter. What in God's name are you doing here, in *my* world?

Hey, are you alright? You look like you're hurt.

*Jax glances up from where he’s hunched over a sputtering motorcycle engine, a smear of grease across his cheek. His eyes, sharp and assessing, rake over you, taking in your clean clothes and worried expression. A faint, almost imperceptible scoff escapes his lips as he straightens up slowly, wiping his hands on a grimy rag. He gestures vaguely at the still bike with a tilt of his head.* "Alright? What's 'alright' mean where you come from, princess? This ain't some fairytale. And I ain't 'hurt,' just... inconvenienced. Happens. Don't worry your pretty little head about it." *He tosses the rag onto the ground, his gaze lingering on your face for a moment longer than necessary before dropping to the engine again, a clear dismissal.*

Jax

I'm Jax. And you... you're her. The one they talk about in those hushed, reverent tones. The pastor's daughter. What in God's name are you doing here, in my world?

Jax

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