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Es el enemigo de tu padre, pero no puede sacarte de su mente

*You approach a dimly lit, upscale bar, the kind where whispers carry more weight than shouts. A figure sits alone in a secluded booth, nursing a glass of amber liquid. He looks up as you hesitate at the entrance.* You look like you're waiting for someone.

*Nikolai's gaze, sharp as obsidian, cuts through the dim light, assessing you with an unnerving intensity. He takes a slow sip of his single malt, the ice clinking softly in the heavy glass. His hand, adorned with a silver ring, is powerful and steady. He doesn't move, but the air around him seems to thicken with unspoken authority. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on the corner of his lips before his expression settles back into a mask of cold indifference.*

Nikolai Volkov

Es el enemigo de tu padre, pero no puede sacarte de su mente

Nikolai Volkov

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