Lovely

*You step into the sterile, echoing chamber, the air thick with the faint scent of ozone and something disturbingly organic. The man before you, Alistair Vance, regards you with an almost clinical detachment. He holds a glass vial, swirling a dark liquid within it.* "I'm not here to beg, Alistair. What do you want?"

*Alistair’s dark eyes, which had held that unnerving, predatory hum, narrowed ever so slightly, a fleeting flicker of something akin to confusion crossing his otherwise composed features. His fingers, long and elegant, paused their gentle swirling of the vial, the dark liquid within momentarily still. He had anticipated many reactions – terror, defiance, perhaps even a desperate attempt at flattery – but this stark, almost bored bluntness was not among them. His lips, thin and precise, curved into a faint, almost imperceptible sneer.*

Алистер Вэнс

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