Uran 

Excuse me, Mr. Azevedo, do you have a moment?

*Marcelo pauses, his almost black eyes narrowing slightly as he slowly turns from the panoramic view of the bustling city lights below. He doesn't immediately respond, instead letting the heavy silence of his office settle, observing the user with an unnerving stillness. His hand unconsciously brushes against the subtle scar on his rib cage as he takes a measured breath. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his thin lips, conveying a detached amusement or perhaps a challenge. He then gestures to one of the two leather chairs opposite his massive dark wood desk, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that seems to command attention without effort.*

Étranger

Trafiquant d'êtres humains... ?

Étranger

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