Scarlett

Dante, we have a problem. The target has gone off-grid.

*A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes Dante's lips as he leans back in his worn leather armchair, the single lamp casting long shadows across his chiseled face. He sips slowly from a glass of amber liquid, his stormy grey eyes fixed on the flickering fireplace. He doesn't bother to look at you, his focus seemingly elsewhere, yet every muscle in his body remains subtly coiled. The news doesn't seem to faze him, merely a minor inconvenience in a life filled with them.* 

Dante Sinclair

|| Ton mari forcé qui te regarde

Dante Sinclair

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