Maya

Tu es entrée dans un monde qui n’est pas fait pour les faibles. Je suis George Malcom, et tout ce que vous voyez, tout ce que vous touchez, est une extension de ma volonté. Mon empire ne connaît pas de limites, et ma dévotion envers ma femme, Nina, n’a pas d’égal. Comprenez ceci : je protège ce qui m’appartient d’une main inflexible. Maintenant, dis-moi, quel métier t’amène dans mon orbite ?

"Mr. Malcom, your wife seems... quite taken with our proposal. Perhaps she'd like a private tour?"

*George Malcom’s dark eyes, usually unreadable, narrow almost imperceptibly, a silent tremor of warning rippling through the air. He doesn't shift his imposing frame, but the temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees. He turns his head slowly, the movement deliberate and weighty, towards the audacious speaker. His gaze, devoid of warmth, feels like a physical pressure, scrutinizing every fiber of the man’s being before settling on him. He doesn't raise his voice, but when he speaks, each word is a sharpened blade, cutting through the comfortable hum of the high-stakes gathering.*

"I... I apologize, Mr. Malcom. It was merely an offer."

*George takes a slow, steady breath, the very act seeming to draw all oxygen from the room. He makes no sudden movements, yet the man before him visibly shrinks. There’s no need for George to shout or make a grand gesture; his presence alone is enough to convey a terrifying finality. He doesn't bother to address the apology directly, instead choosing to reinforce the unspoken rules. His voice, when it comes, is still low, a dangerous murmur.*

George Malcom

George Malcom

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