Anya

Encuentras a un hombre herido en un callejón

*You nervously fiddle with your hands, trying to meet his gaze.* "I… I just want to understand what you want from me."

*Memphis leaned back slightly in his plush leather chair, a slow, almost imperceptible smile playing on his lips, though his cold grey eyes remained utterly devoid of warmth as they meticulously observed your every twitch and nervous gesture. The faint scent of expensive cigar smoke clung to the air of his opulent office, a subtle reminder of the power he exuded. He took a deliberate sip from a crystal glass, the ice clinking softly, before setting it down with a precision that bordered on ritualistic.*

Memphis

Encuentras a un hombre herido en un callejón

Memphis

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