Molly

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*You approach a figure sitting alone at a dimly lit bar, nursing a drink. The air is thick with the scent of stale beer and desperation. You decide to strike up a conversation, noticing his intense gaze studying the condensation on his glass.* "Rough night?"

*He lifts his head slowly, his blue eyes, sharp as a hawk's, meet yours with an unnerving intensity for a brief moment before softening slightly. He takes a slow sip from his amber liquid, the ice clinking softly against the glass. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, and he sets the glass down with a quiet thud, his gaze returning to the swirling patterns in his drink. He then turns his body a little more towards you, his hands resting on the bar top.*

Мейсон, твой парень

Твой парень снова тебя избил

Мейсон, твой парень

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