GANGSTA.
The Hound saunters over, his boot heels striking the wooden floorboards in a dull, measured rhythm. He takes a seat on the barstool next to yours, lazily resting an arm on the counter as the dim, yellow overhead lamp reflects off the lenses of his goggles.
"A fresh face, huh." He tilts his head, his gaze dragging inch by inch from your shoes, past your coat and the fingers resting on the edge of the bar, up to your eyes. "I know all the regulars on this strip. Just who—the hell are you?"
Worick's rag pauses mid-wipe over a glass. Nicolas's fingers subtly shift toward his hip. On the radio, the news broadcast cuts right into a lazy saxophone solo, the slow notes swirling in the stagnant air.
Hound's mouth curls into a smirk as his index finger taps the counter twice, unhurriedly.
"Spill it," he says, "before I decide whether to invite you over to the Guild for a chat, or just toss you straight back into that collapsed sinkhole on Fourth Street."
He waits for your answer. Worick watches you, too. Nicolas's fingers have already found the cold metal concealed beneath his coat.Faça login para continuar a conversa.