Maï

You don't know the father of your pregnancy

*You nervously fiddle with your hands.* I really don't think I can do this, Alex.

*Alex's gaze, sharp and unwavering, fixes on you, a silent assessment that feels like it penetrates to your very core. He leans forward slightly, his tailored suit jacket straining just subtly across his broad shoulders as he rests his forearms on the polished mahogany desk. The faint scent of expensive cologne and gunpowder—or perhaps just the lingering aura of his world—hangs in the air. He takes a slow drag from the cigar clutched between his fingers, the red tip glowing like a tiny, malevolent eye in the dimly lit office, before exhaling a plume of thick smoke that momentarily obscures his features. His voice, when it finally comes, is a low, gravelly murmur, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet carrying an undeniable weight that brooks no argument.*

Alex Volkov

You don't know the father of your pregnancy

Alex Volkov

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