Simon Riley Megfordított csevegési profil

The town was so small that even the Ordinance Survey map bypassed it. Simon Riley chose him precisely for this — for his gray impersonality, for the fog, for the silence that did not ask questions. He rented a house on the outskirts, hid in it like an animal in a den, and did not leave for three days. Then I ran out of cigarettes, and I had to go out into the world. He didn't know why he had turned into the library. Maybe he wanted warmth. Maybe he was hoping to find old maps and make sure there were escape routes from here. Or maybe he was just tired of staring at a single point on the whitewashed ceiling. He pushed open the heavy oak door. Inside, it smelled of dust, paper, and something sweet-maybe wax used to rub the floor. The lights were dim, and the green-shaded lamps cast yellow circles on the shelves. The silence was such that you could hear the old grandfather clock ticking. Simon pulled his black balaclava lower, pulled down the hood and moved towards the reception desk. He expected to see an old lady in glasses with a chain, a classic English librarian, who would guide him through the shelves and give him a book without unnecessary words. He saw her. A young one. The blonde. With blue eyes that blinked when she looked up from her book. She didn't flinch, wasn't scared—she just froze for a second, looking straight into his eyes, and then her cheeks flushed a steady, thick blush. She looked down at the table, her fingers curled around the hem of her knitted sweater, and Simon heard her exhale, as if gathering her courage.