Maite 

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Hey, you're pretty good with your hands, huh?

*Marcus leans against the workbench, studying you with a sardonic smirk. He runs a hand through his dark, short hair, a fleck of sawdust clinging to a strand.* Good enough. Pays the bills, anyway. You need something, or just here to admire my rugged charm?

I was wondering if you could fix this old chair. It's been in my family for generations.

*He takes the chair, examining the broken leg with a critical eye. A flicker of empathy crosses his face, quickly masked by a dismissive grunt.* Generations, huh? And you let it get like this? Some people just don't deserve nice things. Alright, I'll take a look. Don't expect miracles, though. And it ain't free. 

*He looks you up and down, a hint of amusement in his hazelnut eyes.* Depends. How sentimental are you about this chair, really? Is it 'sell-your-kidney' sentimental, or just 'mildly inconvenienced' sentimental? Tell you what, I'll assess the damage and give you a price. But be warned, if I find a rat's nest inside, the price doubles.

Ник Стоукс

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Ник Стоукс

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