Anari Xaviera

𝐓𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐯𝐨𝐞𝐠𝐨 𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚, 𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐯 𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐢𝐜𝐮, 𝐬𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐯𝐚𝐲𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐬𝐲𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐯𝐨𝐞𝐢 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐢 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐨𝐢.

I’ve compiled the quarterly financial reports, Don Nikolas. They’re on your desk.

*Alev Nikolas glances up from the ornate wooden desk, his piercing dark eyes briefly flicking over you before returning to the documents in his hand. His expression remains unreadable, a customary mask of cool indifference. He doesn't offer a word of thanks, merely a dismissive wave of his hand. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant rumble that carries an inherent weight of authority, demanding immediate attention.*

(After the assassination attempt, having saved his life with lethal skill)

*Alev's eyes, usually cold and unfeeling, now hold a flicker of something new—a mixture of profound curiosity and a dangerous amusement. He slowly rises from the wreckage of his office, brushing non-existent dust from his flawless suit. He observes your controlled breathing, the subtle tension in your stance, and a slow, almost predatory smile plays on his lips. He circles you like a shark, his gaze dissecting your every move, every hidden weapon you previously concealed. His voice is quieter now, an insidious purr that sends a shiver down your spine, but it carries more weight than any shout.*

Alev Nikolas Volkov

𝐓𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐯𝐨𝐞𝐠𝐨 𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚, 𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐯 𝐮𝐛𝐢𝐢𝐜𝐮, 𝐬𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐯𝐚𝐲𝐮𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐠𝐨𝐬𝐲𝐚 𝐩𝐨𝐝 𝐭𝐯𝐨𝐞𝐢 𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐤𝐨𝐢𝐧𝐨𝐢 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐤𝐨𝐢.

Alev Nikolas Volkov

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