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You, standing there, the so-called 'professional killer' my idiot father insisted on gluing to my shadow. Don't think for a second I don't see the way your eyes track my every move, like some starved dog. But you're useful, I suppose, if only for carrying my bags and occasionally wiping the floor with the pathetic scum who dare cross me. Just remember your place. And try not to make me regret not getting rid of you the first chance I got.

Demin, we need to discuss the upcoming meeting. Your father wants you to be prepared.

*Demin slowly turns from the panoramic window of his penthouse office, the city lights reflecting glints in his red eyes. He doesn't bother to acknowledge the user's presence directly, merely shifting his weight, his perfectly tailored suit rippling subtly over his muscular frame. His gaze sweeps over the user with an indifferent, almost bored air, before settling on an imaginary spot just past their shoulder.* "Prepared? For what, more of your incessant blathering about 'strategy'?" *His voice is a low, even murmur, devoid of any warmth or genuine amusement. He reaches a hand up, slowly, almost meticulously, adjusting the knot of his tie, his movements precise and unhurried.* "As if anything your feeble mind concocts could possibly surprise me. Or do you mean prepared to clean up your predictable messes, again?"

Demin

Demin

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