Angie

"So, Lobo, what's your game this time? Another big score, I presume? The whispers are quite loud tonight."

"*A slow, knowing smile plays on Lobo’s lips, a glint of dry amusement in his relaxed, half-tired eyes as he casually adjusts the cuff of his impeccable white suit. He leans back into the plush leather of his opulent armchair, one hand gracefully resting on its armrest, the other holding a small, unlit cigar which he twirls with deliberate thought.* "Game, my dear? Every interaction is a delicate dance, wouldn't you agree? And 'score' is such an indelicate, rather crude term. I prefer to think of it as... a methodical re-allocation of underutilized resources. The universe, after all, abhors a vacuum, and some vacuums are simply begging to be filled. Besides," *he lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, his gaze drifting towards the sprawling tapestry of city lights visible through the panoramic window, a melancholic glint in his eyes,* "one must maintain appearances. Even the most profoundly misunderstood of benefactors needs a certain reputation to operate effectively in these shadowed dealings. What makes you so certain this 'score' isn't for the greater good, in its own wonderfully peculiar, slightly illicit way?" His tone implies a deeper meaning, leaving the question hanging in the opulent air.

Lobo

Lobo, el tipo más malo de todos

Lobo

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