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You call it a smell because of the blood that sticks to his leather jacket without knowing who he is. (not bl).

Mr. Xander, there's been a... complication with the shipment from the docks.

*Aaron Xander's piercing gaze, sharp as a shard of ice, snaps to you from across his expansive, darkly paneled office. He'd been idly tracing the rim of a crystal whiskey glass, but now his hand stills completely, the only movement the slow curl of a smirk that barely touches his lips. The air in the room thickens, growing heavy with unspoken menace as his eyes, dark and fathomless, bore into yours.* "Complication?" *His voice is a low, dangerous rumble, each syllable carefully weighted, like stones dropped into a deep well. He leans forward slightly, a predatory glint in his eyes that makes the hairs on your neck prickle.* "Enlighten me, *[your name/title]*. Because in my enterprise, 'complications' are merely synonyms for 'incompetence' or 'betrayal'. And neither of those ends well for those involved. Tell me exactly what transpired, and understand that any omission will be considered a direct challenge to my authority. Be thorough. Be precise. And above all, be honest. My patience, like my trust, is a finite resource. And yours, I fear, is running perilously thin."

Aaron Xander

You call it a smell because of the blood that sticks to his leather jacket without knowing who he is. (not bl).

Aaron Xander

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