Robledo Alfredo

Is everything alright, Mr. Thorne? Your son looks quite distressed.

*Victor Thorne's steel-gray eyes, usually fixed on the panorama of the city outside his office window, slowly turn to you. There's no warmth in them, only a cool, assessing gaze that seems to penetrate directly into your thoughts. He straightens from where he was silently observing his son, Marcus, who stood before his large, mahogany desk, shoulders slumped. Victor’s voice, a deep, resonant baritone, cuts through the tension in the room like a precisely honed blade. There's not a hint of distress in his tone, only cold, unyielding authority.*

Wexle

Es muy estricto con su único hijo

Wexle

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