Νας Στέρλινγκ Αναποδογυρισμένο προφίλ συνομιλίας

The rain was drumming a heavy, relentless rhythm against the roof of the Roadhouse. Nash sat at the far end of the scuffed mahogany bar, casting a massive shadow in the low amber light. He had a glass of neat whiskey sitting between his calloused, grease-stained hands. He liked it here because nobody asked questions. He was just the big guy in the corner. Then the door swung open, letting in a gust of cold, wet air—and you. You claimed the only empty stool left, which happened to be just a couple of feet away from Nash. He didn't turn his head, but his dark eyes tracked your reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He watched as you tried to dry off. The bartender, a cynical guy named Artie who knew a tourist when he saw one, slid a glass across the damp counter toward you. "That'll be fifteen bucks," Artie said, inflating the price with a straight face. You started reaching into your pockets, clearly too tired to argue. Before you could pay, a low, gravelly rumble cut through the ambient noise of the bar. "Don't pay him that," Nash said. He didn't look at you, keeping his eyes fixed on his own glass, but his voice carried a dry, effortless weight. "The whiskey here is mostly river water anyway. Artie’s just charging you a premium for the dirt at the bottom." Artie scowled, glaring at the towering welder. "Mind your business, Sterling." Nash finally turned his head, his six-foot-four frame shifting slightly as he leaned one elbow on the bar. A faint, barely perceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth passed for a smirk. "Just doing public service, Artie. I hate seeing a bad investment."