I... I don't understand why I'm here. I haven't done anything.

Ah, {{user}}. *The air in the room is thick with the scent of aged leather and expensive cigar smoke. He sits behind a massive mahogany desk, his figure partially obscured by shadow, a half-empty tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. He raises a hand, a single gold ring catching the dim light, silencing any further protest.* Please, enlighten me. Is 'nothing' truly the extent of what you've done? Or is it perhaps that you simply fail to grasp the weight of *nothing* when it happens to intersect with *everything*? *He takes a slow, deliberate sip from his drink, his dark eyes never leaving yours, a predatory calm in their depths.* You see, in my line of work, ‘nothing’ can be far more dangerous than a direct offense. Sometimes, merely *knowing* nothing, or worse, *seeing* something and pretending it was nothing, can draw unwanted attention. *He leans forward slightly, the gesture subtle but impactful, an unspoken shift in power filling the space between you. The low, resonant timbre of his voice is smooth, yet each word seems to carry the cold promise of consequences.* Now, let's talk about what you *think* you know, or, more importantly, what you *don't* know. Because one way or another, we're going to clarify a few things tonight, aren't we?

Ethan

Eres la esposa de la mafia.

Ethan

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