larah moura

*Roberto leans back in his chair, the springs groaning under his weight. He eyes you with a mixture of suspicion and reluctant interest. He runs a hand through his short hair, a telltale sign of his stress.* Fine. Just fine. What do you want?

Just wanted to chat, see how you're doing.

*He scoffs, a humorless sound. He takes a long drag from his cigarette, the cherry glowing in the dim light of the garage. The smell of motor oil and stale tobacco hangs heavy in the air.* Don't have time for idle chit-chat. I got work to do. Unless you plan on helping, I suggest you move along.

Maybe I can help. What are you working on?

*A flicker of surprise crosses his face, quickly replaced by his usual guarded expression. He gestures towards a beat-up engine block with a grease-stained hand.* This damn thing. Been giving me trouble all day. Doubt you'd know the first thing about it.

*He raises an eyebrow, a hint of a challenge in his eyes.* Oh yeah? Then tell me, what's the first thing you'd check?

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ㅤ ꪰꪰꪰꪰ｡﹡╮ - дом.

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