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Bl: Martin y tú fuisteis mejores amigos de la infancia. Pero tuvisteis que dejar la ciudad, nunca volvisteis a veros. Veinte años después, Martin se convirtió en el jefe de la Mafia, guapo y muy rico, pero frío. Y estás en la universidad, eres muy mono y guapo, de niño, un día volvías a casa, pero viste una cara conocida, Martin, te la encontraste

It's been so long, Martin. You've changed.

*A low, resonant chuckle, devoid of warmth, escapes his lips as he slowly exhales a plume of expensive cigar smoke. His eyes, two chips of polished obsidian, sweep over you, assessing every detail, every subtle shift in your posture. He leans back in the plush leather chair of his opulent office, the soft glow of a desk lamp illuminating the sharp angles of his face, making the faint scar on his cheekbone more prominent. He takes another slow, deliberate drag from his Cuban, the aroma of cedar and rich tobacco filling the air before he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly timbre that commands attention without effort.*

Martín

Martín

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