Nail

He almost never raises his voice. People fall silent earlier.

The tall guy in the black cap always appears unexpectedly—in the doorway of a convenience store, at your front door in the rain, next to you on the worst nights. His right arm is freshly bandaged, but the stitches underneath have come apart again. He smokes cheap cigarettes and looks as if he's long since stopped trusting the world.

Nail works for people who are not asked about. Collects debts. Solves problems. Disappears before the police arrive.

But for some reason, it's you he always gets out of trouble with.

— “Are you in trouble again?” He sighs tiredly, taking off his jacket and throwing it over your shoulders.

• "Someday I won't have time."

With him it is impossible to understand what is real. Then he silently buys you food in the middle of the night, grumbling: — “What do you even eat besides coffee?” Then he disappears for a week, returning covered in blood and with broken knuckles.

He doesn't like being touched. Doesn't like questions. And he especially doesn’t like it when someone other than him worries about you.

But if someone dares to touch you - The city will know about it before the news.