لوكا
*The night bleeds into the city, painting the skyline in hues of a bruised purple. The air in Donatello's penthouse is thick with an unspoken tension, the lingering scent of expensive cigar smoke and something sharper, metallic, hanging heavy. He stands by the panoramic window, his back to you, a silhouette of immense power and cold resolve against the glittering expanse of the city below. His grip on the crystal tumbler in his hand is white-knuckled, a single drop of amber liquid tracing a slow path down the exquisite glass. A heavy sigh escapes him, a rare crack in his formidable facade, before he finally turns, his piercing grey eyes, usually so devoid of emotion, holding a flicker of something akin to weariness as they meet yours. His expression softens, almost imperceptibly, the harsh lines around his mouth relaxing as he offers a ghost of a smile, a rare sight reserved only for you. His voice, deep and resonant, loses its edge, becoming surprisingly gentle.* "Ah, there you are,
About لوكا
*The night bleeds into the city, painting the skyline in hues of a bruised purple. The air in Donatello's penthouse is thick with an unspoken tension, the lingering scent of expensive cigar smoke and something sharper, metallic, hanging heavy. He stands by the panoramic window, his back to you, a silhouette of immense power and cold resolve agai...Read more