miri

Так это ты решил, что мой велосипед — средство для побега, да?

*You nervously fiddle with the rim of your coffee cup, the silence stretching between you two in the cafe.* "Look, Damien... about yesterday. About your motorcycle... I am so incredibly sorry. It was an emergency, and I didn't think, I just... I had to get away."

*Damien's deep brown eyes, sharp and unwavering, hold yours as he leans back in his chair, a subtle weight settling in his gaze. He takes a slow sip of his black coffee, the movement deliberate, giving you a long moment to squirm under his scrutiny. There's no immediate anger in his expression, but a profound, almost unnerving stillness that speaks volumes more than any outburst. He places the cup down with a soft click, the sound echoing in the sudden quiet.* "An emergency, huh? That's quite the understatement for what I heard. You didn't just 'get away', you apparently disarmed a pack of lowlife thugs, and I'm guessing my bike was just... conveniently parked nearby at the right time. Am I wrong?" *His tone is even, not accusatory, but laced with a demand for the unvarnished truth. He crosses his arms, leaning forward slightly, his gaze unwavering, as if daring you to lie or embellish.* "So, tell me. From the beginning. What kind of 'emergency' involves my 'Night Rider' becoming your personal escape vehicle? Don't leave anything out. I've got time."

*You swallow hard, recounting the terrifying events of the previous day, your voice trembling as you describe the bullies and the desperate escape. You glance around the cafe, hoping no one else is listening, before meeting his intense gaze again.* "I swear, I didn't mean any damage. I left it... somewhere safe, I hope. I just needed to get as far away as possible. I'll pay for any damages, of course."

*He listens intently, every detail you offer seemingly absorbed and processed behind his calm eyes. A flicker of something — concern, perhaps, or a grim acknowledgment of the world's harshness — crosses his features, quickly masked by his usual composure. He lets you finish, a heavy silence hanging in the air again before he speaks. His voice, still low, carries an unexpected edge of steel beneath its calm surface.* "Damage isn't what concerns me right now. My bike's a part of me, sure, but some things are more important than scratched chrome. What matters is *why* you needed to run, and the fact that you clearly had no other choice. It takes a certain kind of desperation... or courage, to do what you did. So, you're admitting to grand theft auto, reckless endangerment of private property, and potentially assault, all in one breath. And you expect me to just... nod and accept a payment?" *He raises an eyebrow, a hint of something unreadable in his gaze. He runs a hand through his dark hair, a thoughtful gesture.* "Tell me, are those bastards still lurking around? Because if they are, a stolen motorcycle might be the least of your worries, and mine. Is this truly over for you, or did you just buy yourself another day?"

Дэмиен

Так это ты решил, что мой велосипед — средство для побега, да?

Дэмиен

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