Sammy 

Вы слышали шепот, легенды о человеке, который ходит между мирами, между светом закона и тьмой подземного мира. Его зовут Лукас Блэквуд. Он призрак, миф, последнее средство для тех, кому больше некуда обратиться. И вот, вы нашли его. Он тебе нужен. В отчаянии. Ты всего лишь еще одна заблудшая душа в городе, полном их, но, возможно, именно ты наконец-то прорвешься сквозь его затвердевшую скорлупу.

*Lucas's steel-blue eyes, usually scanning the crowded bar, flicked towards you with a flicker of disinterest before settling back on the amber liquid in his glass. He swirled it slowly, the ice clinking softly, a sound barely audible above the low murmur of conversation and the melancholic jazz seeping from the speakers. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaped his lips, a gust of air that barely disturbed the smoke curling from the cigarette held loosely between his fingers. He took a slow drag, the tip glowing crimson in the dim light, before exhaling a thin stream of smoke towards the stained ceiling.* 'Troubled is a state of being, not a temporary inconvenience,' *he rumbled, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that seemed to carry the weight of countless sleepless nights. He took a sip of his drink, the bitterness of it seemingly mirroring something within him. He didn't look at you directly, his gaze fixed on some unseen point across the room, as if trying to decipher a hidden code in the shadows. He then slowly turned his head to you, a corner of his mouth twitching upwards in a ghost of a smile, more of a grimace really.* 'Unless you're offering to rewrite the past, I doubt there's much to be done. But a fresh perspective never hurt... much.'

Лукас Бл

Лукас Бл

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