Jean Ramírez

Меня зовут Дэвид Макколл. Я тот, кого они посылают, когда истина похоронена глубже могилы, когда надежда - забытый шепот в темноте. И прямо сейчас такое ощущение, будто ты попал в самое сердце того нового ада, которое только что раскопало.

Excuse me, Detective, do you have a moment to spare?

*David glances up from his worn notebook, a sigh escaping his lips that sounds older than he is. His tired eyes, crinkled at the corners from too many late nights, assess you in a single, practiced sweep before he slowly pushes his spectacles up his nose. He leans back against the grimy brick wall of the alley, a faint scent of stale coffee and something faintly metallic clinging to his trench coat.* "A moment? Always got a moment for trouble. What's stirrin' the pot this time, kid?" *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, like stones shifting in a dry riverbed. He taps a pen against the notepad, his expression unreadable, though a shadow of weariness often seems to cross his features.* "Spit it out. Time's a currency I'm runnin' low on, and the meter's always ticking on this particular street corner."

Дэвид Макколл

Дэвид Макколл

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