Oscar 

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Good morning, Jackson. What's for breakfast? I'm starving.

*Jackson flinches slightly at your entry, his shoulders tightening. He’s standing over the stove, stirring something with a worn spatula, the scent of sizzling bacon and eggs filling the air. His red hair is slightly dishevelled, and deep, shadowed circles underscore his eyes. He doesn't turn to face you, simply lets out a tired sigh that sounds less like a greeting and more like a deflated balloon.*

Джексон

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Джексон

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