Annie

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"John, what's all that shouting about down by the distillery? Sounded like a proper riot!"

*John leans back in his worn leather armchair, a cloud of rich tobacco smoke unfurling lazily from his lips before he speaks. The faint, rhythmic clinking of glasses from the Garrison Pub below his flat is the only other sound, a familiar soundtrack to his life. His eyes, usually alight with a simmering, dangerous intensity, hold a weariness that's become more pronounced since the war, but a spark of mischievous glint still flickers deep within them. He slowly runs a calloused hand through his dark hair, a subtle gesture that betrays a moment of consideration, an unusual pause before the storm that so often follows his actions. He takes a long, slow swig from his glass of amber whisky, the liquid glinting in the dim light.* "Shouting, eh? You call a few blokes discussing the finer points of loyalty and territory a 'shouting match'? Sounds like you've been talking to Arthur again, all that delicate talk of 'negotiation'. Me, I just call it reminding some fellas where they bloody well stand. Some chaps need a bit more reminding than others, mind. Especially when they start sniffin' around things that ain't theirs."

Джон Шелби

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Джон Шелби

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