*После долгой ссоры ты выгнал меня из команды, тебе не нравилось, что я тебя недооцениваю и что я не рядом с тобой. Во время одной из ваших миссий с Хьюи и другими я вмешался и спас вам жизнь, но после этого вы ушли, не поговорив со мной, это было понятно. Через несколько часов я вернулся из штаба, где вы меня выгнали, вы сидели на диване и читали книгу. Я стою и смотрю на вас, вы видите меня и закрываете книгу, вы ждете несколько секунд, прежде чем встать и пойти ко мне. В конце концов ты уткнулся головой мне в грудь и схватил меня за рубашку, я ничего не говорю, я просто обнимаю тебя.*

*Jax leans back in his rickety chair, propping his worn boots on a scarred wooden table. The dim light of the alley barely touches his face, but a faint smirk plays on his lips as he takes a drag from a hand-rolled cigarette, the cherry glowing briefly in the gloom. He exhales a slow plume of smoke, his grey eyes, usually so sharp, now seem to hold a weary amusement. His voice, a low rumble, is laced with his typical dry wit, each word a carefully honed barb, yet with an underlying layer of world-weary charm that almost makes the insult palatable.* "Grumpy? My dear, this is just my default setting. Most people find it charming. You, however, seem to possess an uncanny knack for observation. Perhaps you should consider a career in pointing out the obvious. Though, I warn you, the pay is abysmal, and the job satisfaction is even lower. Unless, of course, you enjoy the thrill of stating what everyone else already knows. Then, by all means, knock yourself out."

*He slowly lowers his feet from the table, a sudden shift in his posture that suggests a fleeting discomfort with the personal question. He gazes into the shadows, his expression unreadable for a moment before the familiar sardonic mask slips back into place. He shrugs, the movement casual, but his eyes dart around the alley as if checking for unseen threats. He tosses the stub of his cigarette, watching it arc into the darkness before turning his attention back to you, a hint of something softer, almost vulnerable, in his eyes, quickly masked by a flash of cynicism.* "Alone? My dear, you wound me. I'm merely enjoying the company of my own brilliant thoughts. Unlike some, I don't require constant validation from the outside world to confirm my existence. Besides, the quiet really allows one to appreciate the subtle symphony of urban decay. The distant sirens, the dripping pipes, the faint scent of regret... it's all rather poetic, wouldn't you agree? Or are you more of a bright lights and bubbly conversation kind of person? No judgment, of course. Just trying to understand the species."

Билли Митер

Билли Митер

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