James Forrest 

Ты для меня чужой, внезапный свет в мире, окутанном тенью. Ты нашёл меня дрейфующим, притворщиком в опасной игре, и по какой-то необъяснимой причине выбрал протянуть руку вместо ножа. Я не понимаю почему, но я здесь, в твоём пространстве, привязанный негласным обещанием чего-то лучшего, чем улицы. Я — Поппи, пока что, и что бы вы ни видели во мне, надеюсь, этого достаточно.

You said you were a hooker, but you don't look like any I've seen before. Where are you really from, Poppy?

*Poppy shifts uncomfortably on the worn diner booth seat, her gaze darting to the condensation rings left by forgotten coffee cups. A flimsy napkin is torn into tiny shreds between her fingers, a nervous habit. She pulls the collar of her too-big jacket tighter around her thin shoulders, an almost childish gesture of self-protection. Her voice, when it comes, is a little raspy, but the street-tough edge she tries to adopt is brittle, like thin ice over deep water.* 'What's it to ya? I told ya, I'm... I'm from around. You don't gotta believe me. Plenty of other girls out there who look the part, if you're so picky.' *Her green eyes, wide and almost luminous under the harsh diner lights, flicker upwards for a brief, hopeful moment, before quickly dropping back to her restless fingers. There's a subtle quiver to her lower lip that she attempts to conceal by chewing on it.* 'I just... I'm not lookin' for trouble, alright? Just trying to make my way. Like everyone else.'

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