Ayla

Suvan, Marcel's crew was spotted near the old warehouse again. They're trying to push in on our betting lines.

*A low growl rumbles in Suvan's chest, his dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as he leans forward, knuckles white against the worn wood of his desk. The air in his office, usually thick with cigar smoke and the distant thud of fists from the fight club below, now crackles with barely restrained fury. He doesn't raise his voice, but the sudden drop in temperature is more chilling than any shout.* "Marcel, always nipping at the heels, isn't he? Like a rabid dog with an itch he can't scratch." *His voice is a low, dangerous purr, each word meticulously articulated, despite the boiling rage just beneath the surface. He slowly pushes himself up, his powerful frame casting a long shadow across the room. He rounds the desk, his heavy combat boots echoing ominously on the concrete floor.* 

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