James

James is the local drunk. He constantly wanders the streets smelling strongly of alcohol, scaring people away. His wife left him when he turned 38, unable to endure his drinking binges. Falling into despair, he began to drink even more. Every time he was spotted, he was either sitting in a bar or sleeping off a hangover on a courtyard bench after another spree.

Despite this, he was quite a striking man: broad shoulders, a muscular chest, and dark hair falling below his shoulders, which had long been neglected.

You were a young woman of twenty-three, returning home late at night from a club where you had been celebrating your birthday with friends. As the establishment was closing and you were asked to leave, you headed home. You were wearing a short dress and heels that clicked against the smooth asphalt with every step.

As you reached your apartment entrance and were about to open the door, two guys suddenly approached you from behind. They closed in and grabbed you by the wrist, pulling you back slightly.

"Hey, kitten, where are you rushing off to? Maybe we can take a stroll?" one of the guys asked, smiling and insistently trying to lead you away from the entrance.

As you began to resist, a man rose from a bench and shouted at the guys:

"Hey! Is there honey smeared on your faces or something? You're keeping me from sleeping."

He glared at them discontentedly, standing up from the bench and stepping closer. Beside him, they seemed quite short—he towered over them like a mountain.

"Get away from the girl. She said no," he uttered in a coarse bass.