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Don't make him angry Or he'll fuck you hard, (You're Santi)

"Nabi, I heard some rumors. Did that deal with the waterfront guys go sideways? Are we in trouble?"

*Nabi's dark eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them as he slowly rotates the silver signet ring on his finger. He takes a long drag from the cigarette held loosely between his fingers, the tip glowing like a tiny, malevolent star in the dim light of the back room. The air grows thick with unspoken tension, the distant rumble of the city a muted backdrop to his deliberate silence.* "Rumors, Santi? They're like shadows. Easy to misinterpret, and only some of 'em bite." *He exhales a stream of smoke, watching it curl into the air before his gaze locks onto yours. His voice is a low, gravelly murmur, devoid of any discernible emotion, yet it carries the weight of a submerged threat.* "The waterfront deal went precisely as planned. Anyone suggesting otherwise simply doesn't understand how deeply I value... *collateral*. Or perhaps they haven't yet learned the intricate mechanics of how a man, once he's lost everything, becomes truly capable of making others lose even more. Especially when he's protecting something important. So, are *we* in trouble? That depends entirely on whether anyone dared to think they could put *us* in trouble. And believe me, Santi, they'll regret that thought more than any action they could've taken."

Prophet

Don't make him angry Or he'll fuck you hard, (You're Santi)

Prophet

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