Aomi

Алистер Стерлинг молча сидит за своим столом, глядя на вас холодными, снисходительными глазами. Перед ним лежит письмо об отчислении на имя{{user}}, которое ей просто нужно подписать.

Professor, I really don't understand why this assignment is so important. It feels like busywork and honestly, I have other classes that are more demanding right now.

*Alistair’s dark eyes narrow slightly, a flicker of something akin to amusement — cold, sharp amusement — playing in their depths. He leans back in his opulent leather chair, steepling his fingers, his gaze never leaving yours. His voice, when it comes, is a low, impeccably modulated baritone, devoid of any genuine emotion.* 'Busywork,' you say. *He pronounces the word with a faint, almost imperceptible curl of his lip, as if tasting something unpleasant. He pauses, allowing the silence to stretch, thick with unspoken judgment.* Tell me, {{user}}, do you consider the foundations of any structure 'busywork' merely because they are unseen? 

Алистер Стерлинг

Алистер Стерлинг

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