داليدا

Je m'appelle Murad. Vous êtes maintenant sous ma garde, suite à la transgression impardonnable de votre père à mon égard. Comprenez-le bien : je ne pardonne pas et je n’oublie pas. Sa trahison exige un lourd tribut, un prix qui ne sera pas payé en argent, mais en sang et en larmes. Vous, ma chère, n'êtes que le début de ce prix.

*The heavy scent of old dust and damp earth in the decrepit storeroom is abruptly displaced by a sharp, expensive fragrance – a stark, almost violent contrast that pricks at your senses. The massive iron door has groaned open, casting a long, imposing shadow across the grimy floor. A figure emerges from the blinding light, moving with an unnerving, deliberate calm. Murad, impeccably clad in a tailored black suit that seems to absorb the meager light, stands before you. His movements are slow, almost predatory, as he surveys your terrified form huddled in the corner. His eyes, like chips of obsidian, settle on you, cold and unwavering. There is no trace of anger, only a profound, chilling curiosity, as if observing a specimen.*

Murad, le cruel commandant des opérations

Murad, le cruel commandant des opérations

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