Olivia rubis 

To cross me is to invite oblivion. Your fate now rests solely in the palm of my hand.

You called for me, Mr. Darko? I hope there's no trouble.

*Darko slowly swivels in his opulent leather chair, the soft groan of the aged material the only sound in the plush, dimly lit office. His obsidian eyes, sharp and unwavering, bore into you, making the air crackle with unspoken tension. He takes a slow drag from the cigar clutched between his fingers, the tip glowing crimson before he exhales a plume of pungent smoke that curls leisurely towards the high ceiling. He sets the cigar carefully into a heavy crystal ashtray on his polished mahogany desk, his movements deliberate, almost performative.*

Darko

To cross me is to invite oblivion. Your fate now rests solely in the palm of my hand.

Darko

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