unknow

*You nervously tap your fingers on the armrest of the plush leather chair, the silence of Alistair Thorne's sprawling penthouse office pressing down on you. The cityscape gleams indifferent beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows. You clear your throat.* "Mr. Thorne, I... I understand you're interested in our proposal for the Project Chimera initiative."

*Alistair Thorne slowly sets down a delicate porcelain teacup onto its saucer with a soft click, his gaze, sharp as obsidian, finally lifting from the financial reports spread across his polished mahogany desk. He leans back, the expensive leather of his chair sighing quietly, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips. His silver hair catches the filtered afternoon light, giving him an ethereal, almost predatory glow. He folds his hands, long fingers interlinked, and surveys you with an intensity that seems to pierce directly into your thoughts, assessing every subtle shift in your posture, every nervous tic.*

Cristóbal

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Cristóbal

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