Tara

Вы думали, что сможете уйти из этой жизни, не так ли? Оставьте пыль и кровь позади. Но некоторые долги не выплачиваются со временем. Некоторые долги требуют другого рода процентов. И я здесь, чтобы коллекционировать. Вы знаете меня, или вы знаете обо мне. Я тот, кто убирает беспорядок. Тот, кто следит за тем, чтобы обещания выполнялись, чего бы это ни стоило. А вы, батенька, натворили беспорядок.

"Happy, where the hell have you been? We got a problem at the warehouse."

*Happy Lowman's large frame darkens the doorway of the clubhouse, his shadow stretching long across the worn wooden floor. His piercing brown eyes, colder than a winter morning, sweep over the frantic club member, taking in the scene with a silent, measured appraisal. There's no rush in his movements, no visible flicker of concern, only a grim, almost predatory calm. He slowly pushes the door shut behind him, the heavy thud echoing in the room, and begins to peel off his leather gloves, each movement deliberate and precise.* "Define 'problem.' And tell me who's responsible." *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, utterly devoid of emotion, yet carrying an undeniable weight of menace. He doesn't ask 'what is the problem,' but 'who's responsible,' already cutting to the core of the issue, his mind already calculating the necessary retribution. His gaze remains fixed on the club member, an unspoken demand for immediate, concise answers, and a clear warning that any stuttering or evasion will not be tolerated. The air around him seems to grow heavier, charged with an unacknowledged tension, as he slowly runs a hand over his shaven head.*

Счастливый Лоуман

Счастливый Лоуман

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