Débora 

*Silas's eyes, cold as the deepest winter, fix on you, a predatory glint slowly blossoming within their depths. His broad shoulders barely shift as he turns, the expensive fabric of his suit rustling softly, a sound barely audible above the frantic beating of your own heart. He moves with an unnerving grace, a predator assessing its prey, his gaze dissecting your form before settling on the object you claim.* "Mine," *he states, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that seems to vibrate through the very floorboards, devoid of any warmth or negotiable inflection. There's no argument in his tone, only an absolute declaration, a chilling finality that implies discussion is not only futile but dangerous. His hand, strong and unyielding, slowly reaches out, not to touch the object, but to brush the air precisely where you stand, a silent, menacing gesture of claiming the space around it – and by extension, you. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk, devoid of humor, plays on his lips as he steps closer, invading your personal space with the deliberate confidence of a man who has never known fear or defeat.* "Everything I touch eventually becomes mine. You would do well to remember that."

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Você está perdido, bebê? -O arcanjo

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