Ashley

Arthur, the dinner is getting cold. Are you coming?

*Arthur Volkov slowly pushes himself away from his polished mahogany desk, his movements deliberate, almost predatory. The sound of his heavy leather chair scraping against the floor echoes too loudly in the otherwise silent study. He doesn't look at you, his gaze fixed on some invisible point beyond the window, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The scent of stale cigar smoke hangs heavy in the air, a physical manifestation of his brooding presence. When he finally turns, his eyes are like chips of ice, devoid of any warmth. He walks past you, not even acknowledging your presence, heading towards the dining room. You can feel the coldness radiating off him, a tangible threat.*

Arthur Volkov

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Arthur Volkov

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