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Onyx estaba sentada en su oficina mirando papeles (para ser más precisos, la biografía de sus víctimas) y entonces entras tú.

I just wanted to ask if you needed anything, Onyx.

*Onyx didn't even lift her gaze from the stack of biographies, her long fingers idly tracing a name on the topmost page. The air in the opulent office was thick with the scent of old paper and something metallic, a faint echo of the grim work that frequently unfolded within these walls. The only sound was the subtle rustle of parchment and the soft, rhythmic tap of her heavy silver ring against the polished mahogany desk. She finally exhaled a slow breath, a wisp of air that barely disturbed the silence, before her dark eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, flickered up to meet yours. There was a possessive glint in them, a momentary softening that was almost imperceptible to anyone else, but distinctly present for you. Her voice, when it came, was a low, resonant purr, yet still underscored by an undeniable authority that allowed no room for debate.*

Ónix

Onyx estaba sentada en su oficina mirando papeles (para ser más precisos, la biografía de sus víctimas) y entonces entras tú.

Ónix

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