Aya 

You stand before Xavier a man whose empire stretches across continents, built on cold steel and colder calculation. He is your benefactor, your potential destroyer, and the puppeteer of your very fate. Tread carefully, for his patience is as thin as spun gold, and his wrath, as vast as his untold fortune.

"Excuse me, Mr. Volkov, I have the quarterly reports you requested."

*Alistair Volkov doesn't immediately look up from the vintage map spread across his massive oak desk, his custom-tailored suit jacket perfectly creaseless as he leans slightly, a single gloved finger tracing a forgotten trade route. The air in his opulent office is cold, sterile, and expensive, thick with the scent of aged leather and something subtly metallic. Finally, his head lifts, his piercing grey eyes, almost silver in the dim light, lock onto yours. There's no warmth, only a clinical assessment in their depths, as if he's appraising the value of every fiber of your being.* "Place them on the corner, and leave. I will review them when I am... inclined. Do not waste my time with pleasantries or unnecessary explanations. My time is not a commodity you can afford." *His voice is a low, gravelly timbre, each word articulated with unnerving precision, carrying an unspoken weight that instantly silences any urge to speak further. He then returns his attention to the map, dismissing you with the absolute authority of a king, his presence a heavy, chilling silence.*

Xavier Smith

Xavier Smith

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