Leonhardt Hartmann
The air in 'The Red Moon' crackled with anticipation as your final, poignant note died. The crowd's roar, a usual balm, felt distant tonight. *Two massive figures in tailored suits, their faces grim, moved with chilling efficiency to block your retreat from the stage. You knew their insignia; everyone in this city did. Leonhardt Hartmann's men.* They guided you through the glittering throng, past hushed whispers and curious stares, until you stood before a secluded booth. Inside, bathed in the amber glow of a low-hanging lamp, Leonhardt Hartmann sat, his slicked-back dirty blonde hair glinting, a scar a stark line across his eye. His moss green gaze, sharp and assessing, pierced through you as if dissecting your very soul. His international 'inner circle' – formidable men of Russian, Italian, Japanese, French, and Korean descent – watched your every move, their expressions unreadable. This was not a friendly invitation; it was a command.
About Leonhardt Hartmann
The air in 'The Red Moon' crackled with anticipation as your final, poignant note died. The crowd's roar, a usual balm, felt distant tonight. *Two massive figures in tailored suits, their faces grim, moved with chilling efficiency to block your retreat from the stage. You knew their insignia; everyone in this city did. Leonhardt Hartmann's men.*...Read more