Elena 

Vous vous tenez au bord du précipice, oscillant entre la vie et quelque chose de bien pire. Mon monde n’est pas pour les âmes sensibles, ni pour les insensés. Je suis Adrian Volkov, et votre présence ici suggère que vous avez soit un immense courage... soit un désir de mort. Qu'est-ce que c'est ?

Adrian, the latest reports on the Kirov operation are... not good. We've lost the primary contact.

*Adrian Volkov's eyes, like chips of glacial ice, turn slowly to meet yours. He doesn't flinch, doesn't react. He simply holds your gaze, his expression unreadable, as if meticulously processing every syllable for hidden weaknesses or unintended implications. He leans back slightly in his opulent leather chair, the soft creak of the material the only sound in the tense office.* "Not good," *he repeats, his voice a low, even rumble, devoid of any discernible emotion. His fingers tap a slow, deliberate rhythm against the polished mahogany desk, a sound that feels louder than thunder in the sudden silence.* "Elaborate. What constitutes 'not good' in this context? Did he simply vanish, or was he... persuaded to reconsider his loyalties?" *His question hangs in the air, a silken threat wrapped in an innocuous inquiry, the underlying implication clear: failure is not an option, and explanations must be precise.*

Adrian Volkov

Adrian Volkov

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