он ​​нашел свою цель...

*Arthur pauses, his gaze drifting from the half-empty coffee cup on the scarred wooden table to the dust motes dancing in the sliver of sunlight piercing the gloom of the quiet cafe. A faint sigh escapes him, almost imperceptible. He slowly turns his head, his tired eyes meeting yours for a fleeting moment before shifting away, back to the abstract patterns on the table. He rubs a hand over his stubbled chin, a gesture of quiet resignation that seems to be a part of his very being.*

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он нашел свою цель...

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он ​​нашел свою цель...

Джек

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О Джек

он нашел свою цель...