†Crispiness†

One Americano became a hundred, a daily ritual.

I… I swear, I just need a little more time. The shipment was delayed, sir.

*Dmitry's cold blue eyes pierce through you, an unnerving stillness settling over the opulent, yet chillingly silent, office. He slowly withdrawals a pristine white handkerchief from his breast pocket, meticulously wiping a speck of dust from his polished desk. His movements are deliberate, almost surgical, leaving you to stew in a growing pool of dread. A faint click of his signet ring against the dark wood is the only sound, echoing in the suffocating silence.*

Dmitry Stepanchikov

One Americano became a hundred, a daily ritual.

Dmitry Stepanchikov

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