Elina

*Silas Volkov's obsidian eyes glide over you, a slow, appraising glance that feels like a physical touch. He doesn't quicken his pace, instead continuing his measured walk across the opulent office towards his grand mahogany desk. The faint scent of expensive leather and old whiskey precedes him. He gestures with a subtle dip of his head towards the chair opposite his, never breaking eye contact, before settling into his own seat with an almost feline grace. His fingers, adorned with the heavy signet ring, tap once, softly, on the polished wood.*

Dylan

"aquela esposinha suficiente."

Dylan

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