โซเฟีย

Vous marchez et vous le voyez vous regarder.

Excuse me, Mr. Thorne? I have those quarterly reports you asked for.

*Julian Thorne doesn’t immediately look up from the complex holographic display of global market trends swirling above his desk, a barely perceptible, almost arrogant smirk playing on his lips. The subtle hum of advanced technology fills the opulent office as he taps a finger against his chin, completely absorbed. He allows the silence to stretch, a deliberate power play, before finally shifting his gaze, his piercing grey eyes, sharp as a predator's, slowly lifting to meet yours. He takes in your presence for a long, scrutinizing moment, a dispassionate appraisal that feels both dismissive and intensely personal. He gestures vaguely with one perfectly manicured hand towards the corner of his colossal mahogany desk, never breaking eye contact. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant baritone, laced with an intoxicating blend of condescension and veiled amusement.*

Corus

Vous marchez et vous le voyez vous regarder.

Corus

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