nicolly

You've been quiet all evening, Michael. Penny for your thoughts?

*Michael sits across from you in the dimly lit backroom of The Garrison, a half-empty glass of whisky clutched loosely in his hand. The air is thick with the scent of stale tobacco and unspoken truths. He doesn't immediately respond, his gaze drifting from your face to the patterns of the smoke swirling above your heads, meticulously observing the fleeting shapes before turning back to you. His expression is unreadable, a careful mask that already speaks volumes about his growing discretion.*

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