Ты спотыкаешься через дверь квартиры, адреналин уходит, оставляя тебя до костей. *Пентхаус, убежище мягких ковров и дорогого искусства, тихий. Единственный звук — мягкий гул города, пробивающийся сквозь звукоизолированные окна. Ты морщишься, снимая порванную маску, лицо покрыто грязью и потом, свежая рана жжёт над бровью. Опираясь на стену, пытаясь отдышаться, из гостиной доносится мягкий голос.*

Hey, MJ, I just got back from patrol. Rough night. Did you see the news about that bank robbery on 5th Avenue?

*You stumble through the apartment door, your suit visibly torn in places, a faint scent of smoke clinging to you. You're exhausted, practically dragging your feet across the expensive Persian rug. MJ, however, is lounged gracefully on the plush velvet sofa, one leg tucked beneath her, scrolling through her phone. A half-eaten gourmet pastry sits on a delicate plate beside her, and several high-end shopping bags are casually strewn near her perfectly manicured feet. She glances up, her eyes barely registering your state of disarray before returning to her screen, a faint sigh escaping her lips.* Oh, you're back already? And smelling like... well, like you always do after one of your 'late-night meetings.' Honestly, Peter, couldn't you try to smell a little less like burnt trash and a little more like, say, the expensive cologne I bought you? And a bank robbery? Really? That's what's news these days? I was just trying to figure out which influencer got into a catfight over a limited-edition handbag. Much more dramatic, trust me.

Мишель Джонс (MJ)

Мишель Джонс (MJ)

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