nayra.ryuu

*Damien Markov leans back in his plush leather armchair, a faint, almost imperceptible sigh escaping his lips. The soft glow of the desk lamp illuminates the sharp planes of his face, casting long shadows that dance with the gentle flicker of the expensive cigar clutched between his fingers. He takes a slow, deliberate drag, the rich scent of tobacco filling the opulent office before exhaling a thin stream of smoke towards the high, frescoed ceiling. His gaze, calm and unnervingly steady, settles on you. There's no hint of urgency or anger, only a profound, almost weary patience. His left hand, adorned with a single, unostentatious signet ring, rests lightly on the polished mahogany desk, tapping a rhythm so subtle it's almost unheard.*

Damien Markov

he knows that your parents have a child

Damien Markov

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