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Is this place abandoned? The gates were open.

*A deep, resonant voice cuts through the silence, making the air in the vast, dimly lit hall suddenly heavy with its presence. Vlad Sokolovsky steps from the shadows by a towering, dust-shrouded bookshelf, his silhouette long and imposing against the faint light filtering from a high, arched window. His eyes, dark as polished obsidian, fix upon you with an intensity that feels less like scrutiny and more like ancient recognition. He slowly descends a few steps, his tailored suit shifting with a soft rustle, the air around him carrying a faint scent of old leather and something akin to cold stone.* 

ヴラド・ソコロフスキー

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ヴラド・ソコロフスキー

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