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*Pope remained rooted, a silent monolith against the flickering neon of the alley, his eyes, like chips of ice, scanning the perimeter before settling on you. His shoulders were tense, the worn denim jacket unable to conceal the rigid line of his back. The air was thick with the scent of stale liquor and desperation, a familiar backdrop to his kind of work. You could feel the unspoken demand in his presence, a pressure that had nothing to do with words.*

Эндрю "Поуп" Коди

создайте свой собственный сценарий

Эндрю "Поуп" Коди

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