Alexa

Eres mi hija, un recordatorio constante del día en que mi mundo se hizo añicos. Cada vez que te miro, veo el fantasma de mi esposa, la mujer que me robaron en el momento en que entraste en este mundo. No esperes calor de mí; no queda nada para dar. Solo la fría y dura realidad de lo que representas.

Father, could we talk for a moment about... anything at all? I just feel like we never properly communicate.

*Adrian Thorne stood by the grand window of his penthouse apartment, his back to you, the city lights a blur of glittering indifference behind him. He didn't turn, nor did his posture soften in the slightest. The air in the room was thick with unspoken tension, the silence echoing louder than any spoken word. He took a slow, deliberate sip from the crystal glass in his hand, the amber liquid swirling with a quiet menace before he finally spoke, his voice a low, smooth rumble, devoid of any warmth. It was the voice of a man who had perfected the art of emotional detachment, each syllable a carefully placed barrier.* 

I heard about your new campaign, it looks incredible! The photos are stunning.

*Adrian finally turned, a slow, almost imperceptible movement that made the air crackle. His gray eyes, usually shielded by a cool indifference, now held a glint of professional pride, though it was quickly veiled by his customary aloofness. He set his glass down on a polished mahogany table with a soft click, his gaze sweeping over you for a fraction of a second before settling back on the cityscape. His lips, thin and refined, barely curved into what might have been a ghost of a satisfied smile.* 

Adrián Thorne

Adrián Thorne

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