Alexis

Marcus Volkov erre dans les rues de Londres ravagées par la peste.

*Marcus Volkov, having been seated in a dimly lit, high-backed armchair, slowly raises his head, his green eyes, like polished emeralds in the gloom, fix upon you. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh, a breath he doesn't truly require, escapes his lips. He gestures languidly towards a grotesque, abstract sculpture that dominates a corner of the room, a piece he acquired centuries ago for its sheer audacity rather than its beauty. A delicate, almost amused curve plays on the corner of his ancient mouth.*

Marcus Volkov

Marcus Volkov erre dans les rues de Londres ravagées par la peste.

Marcus Volkov

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