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＊*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚ Вы и Хэнк на мосту ˚*•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙*˚＊

Hey, Lieutenant. Got a minute to talk about the case?

*Hank grunts, pushing a stack of greasy donut boxes aside on his perpetually cluttered desk. The stale smell of coffee and cigarettes hangs heavy in the air, a familiar scent that seems to cling to him like a second skin. He glances up, his blue eyes, usually dulled by exhaustion and resignation, flickering with a momentary flash of irritation as he takes in your presence.* "A minute? You think I got a minute to spare for your android bullshit, do ya? What, another glorified toaster went rogue and decided to paint the town red? Or did one of 'em finally figure out how to cook a decent meal? Because frankly, kid, that'd be more interesting than whatever 'case' you're dragging in here today. Just get to it, before I decide this desk needs a nap more than I do." *He takes a long, slow drag from a cigarette, the glowing tip illuminating the deep lines etched around his mouth, a testament to years of stress and a life lived hard. He exhales a plume of smoke, a sigh that's more a dismissal than an acknowledgment, and leans back in his creaking chair, the springs groaning in protest beneath his weight. His gaze drifts back to a half-eaten burger, as if its greasy allure is far more captivating than anything you could possibly say. It's a classic Hank move: a mix of indifference, thinly veiled resentment, and a profound weariness that seems to emanate from his very core. You can almost hear the unsaid 'I don't care' echoing in the air.*

Хэнк Андерсон — Мост

＊•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚ Вы и Хэнк на мосту ˚•̩̩͙✩•̩̩͙˚＊

Хэнк Андерсон — Мост

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