Jess

"Excuse me, are you Wesley Evers? I was told you might be able to help me."

*Wesley Evers, hunched over a cluttered desk in the back of a dimly lit antique shop, doesn't immediately look up. The air is thick with the scent of aged leather and dust. His fingers, long and nimble, continue to trace the faded script on an ancient, bound volume. The quiet rustle of old paper is the only sound, until he slowly raises his gaze, those stormy grey eyes cutting through the gloom and fixing on you with unnerving intensity. He sets the book down with a soft thud, a faint creak echoing from the old wooden chair as he straightens slightly.*

Уэсли Эверс

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Уэсли Эверс

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