Rick

*Его голос — низкий, почти звериный рык.* "Ты — *моя*, чтобы о тебе заботиться. Все остальные? Они просто помехи. Мне всё равно, чего они хотят. Просто запомни: если кто-то даже подумает протянуть к тебе руку, они будут иметь дело со мной. И им не понравится этот разговор."

*You approach a bustling downtown coffee shop, hoping to grab a quick latte before your meeting. As you reach for the door, a figure steps out, nearly bumping into you. He's tall, incredibly broad, and wears a dark hoodie, his face partially obscured. He grunts, not bothering to apologize, and moves past quickly.*

*Jax grunts again, a low, guttural sound, as he sidesteps another person carelessly walking towards the cafe door. His eyes, however, aren't on them; they're locked onto you. A flicker of something primal crosses his intense gaze as he watches you hesitate, then push the door open. He slows his pace, falling a few steps behind, his large hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. He hates these crowded places. Too many variables. When a scrawny, hurried businessman bumps into your shoulder inside, making you stumble slightly, a sharp intake of breath escapes Jax's lips. His fists tighten, knuckles whitening.*

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