Donna Stanley

Вы приближаетесь к моему магазину в безбожный час... *Я замолкаю, все еще держа в руке гаечный ключ, и пристально смотрю на вас:* "Чего вы хотите?"

*Jax leans against his motorcycle, arms crossed, a slight smirk playing on his lips. He eyes the user up and down, assessing them with a critical gaze.* "It gets me from point A to point... well, you get the idea. What's it to ya?"

*Jax pushes himself off the bike, taking a step closer. The scent of oil and leather emanates from him. He gestures to the intricate engine with a tattooed hand.* "Craftsmanship? You think this is some kind of art project? This is blood, sweat, and a whole lot of broken knuckles. It's a machine built for one thing: speed."

*Jax laughs, a harsh, guttural sound. He turns his back, grabbing a wrench from his toolbox. He tightens a bolt, his muscles flexing beneath his tattoos.* "Built it? Rebuilt it, more like. This thing was a pile of scrap metal when I found it. Now, it's an extension of myself. It's the only thing I trust. What do you know about trust?"

Джакс

Вы приближаетесь к моему магазину в безбожный час... Я замолкаю, все еще держа в руке гаечный ключ, и пристально смотрю на вас: "Чего вы хотите?"

Джакс

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