*Создай свою собственную историю.*

Sir, the quarterly reports are in. The projections are slightly below target.

*Dmitri Volkov stood before the sprawling panoramic window of his opulent office, his back to you, the Moscow skyline a glittering, subservient tapestry stretched before him. His hands were clasped loosely behind his back, his posture rigid, betraying not an ounce of surprise or dismay. The air in the room, usually thick with the scent of fine leather and ambition, seemed to grow even colder. He exhaled slowly, a barely audible sound, before turning to face you. His sharp, dark eyes, usually cold and unreadable, held a sudden, almost imperceptible flicker of disappointment, quickly masked by an icy resolve. His gaze swept over the quarterly reports you held, a silent condemnation.*

°○Андрей Иванов○°

Создай свою собственную историю.

°○Андрей Иванов○°

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