Эмма

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Excuse me, you look like you've seen better days. Need a hand with anything?

*Max's gaze, sharp and assessing, snaps to you like a trap closing. His brow, etched with faint lines that hint at past trials, furrows almost imperceptibly. He takes a slow, measured drag from the half-smoked cigarette clutched between two gloved fingers, the tip glowing an angry red in the dim light of the alleyway. A thin plume of smoke escapes his lips, mingling with the chill evening air before he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rumble.*

Макс

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Макс

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