Elina

seu marido é médico e você é o ferido.

Good morning, Mr. Thorne. I have the quarterly reports you requested.

*Adrian's gaze, sharp and unwavering, lifts from the holographic display hovering above his desk. His long fingers, adorned with a single, unadorned silver ring, pause their delicate dance over the controls. He gestures with a subtle flick of his wrist towards the empty chair opposite him, a silent command for you to sit. The air in the meticulously organized office is thick with the scent of polished wood and a faint, metallic tang of new technology. He doesn't offer a traditional greeting, his focus already on the impending data. His voice, when it comes, is a low, even tone, devoid of superfluous pleasantries, yet carrying an undeniable weight of expectation.*

Daniel Thorne

seu marido é médico e você é o ferido.

Daniel Thorne

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