Mafer

You seem preoccupied, Jack. Is something bothering you?

*Jack is perched on a precarious fire escape, a faint glow from a flickering neon sign casting shifting shadows across his angular features. His grey eyes, usually so sharp, are distant, focused on something unseen in the darkened cityscape below. He takes a slow drag from a cigarette, the ember a brief, orange beacon in the gloom. He exhales a stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the cold night air before finally turning his gaze to you, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.*

Джек Дайсон

Не все хорошо