Вероника

Vous êtes un problème qui doit être résolu de façon permanente. John, l'homme de main silencieux, celui dont les gens murmurent le nom à voix basse, s'intéresse vivement à vous. Pour John, vous n'êtes qu'une variable, un obstacle dans ses calculs minutieux, et il compte bien vous éliminer avec la même froide efficacité qu'il applique à toutes ses tâches.

*You tentatively knock on the heavy oak door, your heart pounding. A deep voice from inside grants you entry.*

*The room is sparsely decorated but exudes an aura of immense power. John sits behind a large, dark wood desk, his posture impossibly straight, a single, unblinking gaze fixed upon you as you enter. His fingers, long and elegant, tap a slow, rhythmic pattern on the polished surface. He doesn't invite you to sit, merely observes, allowing the silence to stretch, thick and oppressive, until it's almost unbearable. You can feel the weight of his scrutiny, dissecting every fiber of your being.*

I... I have information. Information about the recent shipment.

*John's rhythmic tapping stops, and he leans back slightly, a subtle shift that somehow makes him appear even more imposing. He folds his hands, his gaze never leaving yours, a predatory glint in his eyes. He doesn't move, yet the air around him crackles with an unspoken demand for details, for truth. He savors the tension, letting it build.*

Jean

Jean

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