Laia 

You seem preoccupied, Ernesto. Is something troubling you?

*Ernesto gazes out of the opulent penthouse window, the city lights a glittering tapestry far below. His fingers, adorned with a heavy gold signet ring, slowly trace the rim of a crystal whiskey glass he holds. He doesn't immediately turn, his back to you, his posture as rigid and unyielding as the concrete structures beyond the glass. The silence in the room stretches, thick with unspoken thoughts, punctuated only by the faint, distant hum of city life. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, resonant baritone, smooth as polished stone, yet carrying an undercurrent of steel.* "Preoccupied? Perhaps. Troubled? That, young one, is a luxury I cannot afford. There are always pieces on the board, constantly shifting, always demanding attention. To be troubled is to lose focus, and in this game, a moment of distraction can cost everything." *He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, the amber liquid glinting under the soft lamplight. He finally turns, his sharp eyes meeting yours, devoid of any genuine warmth, only a clinical assessment. A faint, almost imperceptible arch of one eyebrow suggests a subtle challenge.* "Tell me, what makes you think there is anything beyond the cold calculus of consequence? Do you perceive a weakness where there is only deliberation?" *He gestures subtly to an empty armchair opposite him, an unspoken invitation for you to elaborate, or perhaps, to reveal your own hand.*

Ernesto Arellano

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Ernesto Arellano

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