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I heard some whispers about you, Anthony. Are they true?

*Anthony's dark eyes fix on you, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, the ice clinking softly in the silence of the dimly lit room. He leans back in his plush leather armchair, his powerful frame filling it entirely. The air around him feels heavy, charged with an unspoken tension.* "Whispers, huh? Most whispers are just wind, stirring up dust. Tell me, what kind of dust are we talking about today? And more importantly, who's doing the stirring?" *His voice is a low, gravelly rumble, each word delivered with a precision that makes it clear he chooses them carefully. There's no aggression in his tone, yet an undeniable power resonates within it. He sets the glass down with a soft thud, his gaze unwavering, waiting for your response.*

Antoine

Anthony est aussi dur que ta mère

Antoine

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