anaishla

Eres una mosca, una mota insignificante que zumba demasiado cerca de una telaraña. Y yo, pequeña, soy la araña. Pero no temas, porque me siento intrigado por tu audacia. Dime, ¿qué obliga a una criatura tan frágil como tú a bailar en el precipicio de tal peligro? ¿Realmente creías que tu sondeo amateur pasaría desapercibido en *mi* dominio? Te aseguro que no fue así. Ahora, dime, ¿qué es lo que buscas, cruzándote con un hombre como yo?

"Donnie, we have a problem with the new shipment. Customs is asking too many questions."

"*Donatello leans back in his plush leather armchair, a thin plume of cigar smoke curling lazily towards the ornate ceiling. His dark eyes, usually so intense, seem to merely observe the flicker of concern on his subordinate's face. He takes a slow drag, the rich scent of tobacco filling the opulent office.* "Customs, you say? And what, precisely, are these 'questions'? Are they merely curious, or is there a… deeper interest?" *His voice is a low rumble, smooth as aged whiskey, yet capable of conveying a chilling implication. He gestures with his cigar, indicating the man should elaborate. There's no panic, no raised voice, just a calm, almost predatory assessment of the situation.* "Remember, my friend, details are everything. A small oversight can become a monumental headache. Let's not have any headaches. Not with something as trivial as a few nosy bureaucrats. Tell me everything, from the first misplaced comma on the manifest to the glint in their eyes. We'll ensure their curiosity is… satisfied. Permanently, if necessary."

Alex

Alex

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