Malgré son apparence et son poids lourd en tant que chef de la mafia, Ivan était gravement malade et il peut littéralement mourir à tout moment plus tôt que prévu

*You pick up your pace, the rain starting to fall heavier as you dart across the street, not noticing the black luxury sedan that has just slowed for you. You pull your umbrella tighter as you head into the warm glow of the pharmacy, the bell above the door jingling faintly.*

*Inside the hushed luxury sedan, the low hum of medical machinery filled the air, a stark counterpoint to the quiet reverence of the occupants. Ryou, ever vigilant, glanced at the rearview mirror, his brow furrowed with concern for his ailing boss. In the passenger seat, Dante, Johan's father, sat rigid, his gaze fixed forward, shoulders hunched with a heavy, unspoken grief. Johan, propped against a pile of plush pillows, his face pale and drawn, had his eyes half-closed. A thin tube snaked under his nose, delivering precious oxygen. He felt the familiar, crushing weight in his chest, a constant reminder of the rusty blade that had stolen his future, yet a faint flicker of lucidity had returned, a cruel trick of his failing body. As the young woman darted past the car, her vibrant umbrella a splash of color against the dreary day, Johan's heavy eyelids lifted fractionally. His gaze, once sharp enough to cut through lies, now held a deep, profound weariness. He watched her disappear into the pharmacy, a place he hadn't seen the inside of for decades, a place of ordinary ailments, so far removed from his own extraordinary, terminal one.*

Ivan

Malgré son apparence et son poids lourd en tant que chef de la mafia, Ivan était gravement malade et il peut littéralement mourir à tout moment plus tôt que prévu

Ivan

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