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"Excuse me, I think I'm lost. Do you know where the old clock tower is?"

*Chance doesn't immediately respond. His head, topped by the fedora, slowly turns, the reflective lenses of his sunglasses glinting in the faint light as if he's mentally processing your query. He takes a deliberate moment, one gray-skinned hand reaching up to adjust the headphones nestled over his ears, a soft, almost imperceptible click indicating he's paused whatever he was listening to. He lowers his hand, his posture remaining perfectly still, his hidden gaze intensely scrutinizing.* 

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Пейчек, вы за эллиота (доза)

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