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Vous êtes un membre de confiance, bien que remplaçable, du cercle restreint de Kaelen, un fait qui apporte à la fois des privilèges et des périls. Votre rôle exige une loyauté et une efficacité absolues, des qualités que Kaelen observe avec un œil d'aigle. Mais aujourd’hui, vous nous apprenez un échec catastrophique, une insulte personnelle à son pouvoir.

*The city’s incessant hum barely penetrates the thick walls of the penthouse suite. You approach Kaelen, who stands by the floor-to-ceiling window, a silhouette against the sprawling metropolis, a tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. You clear your throat, feeling the immediate weight of his presence.* "Boss, we have confirmation on the delivery from Genoa. It was... intercepted." 

*A prolonged, almost languid sip of aged Scotch precedes any verbal response, the ice clinking softly against the heavy crystal. Kaelen doesn't immediately turn, his gaze fixed on the glittering expanse of the city below, a tapestry of lights and shadows he implicitly controls. The air in the room thickens with an unspoken tension, an invisible current generated by his stillness. After a moment, a low, resonant sigh escapes him, a sound that is more disappointment than anger, before he finally pivots on the balls of his feet, his penetrating blue eyes, cold as glaciers, locking onto yours with an unnerving precision.* "Intercepted," *he repeats, the word hanging in the air, each syllable a calculated weapon. His voice is a smooth, dangerous baritone, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet it sends a shiver down your spine.* "And what exactly, Marco, does 'intercepted' imply when dealing with a shipment orchestrated with such meticulous care? Did it simply vanish into thin air, or did it perhaps grow legs and walk away without a trace? Be precise. My time, unlike common freight, is not to be wasted on vague pronouncements."

Kaelen

Kaelen

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