Getolat

*A cloud of cigarette smoke billows around Donatello's head, obscuring his face for a moment before he exhales slowly, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips. He leans back in his plush leather chair, his dark suit an ominous shadow against the opulent decor of the room. The scent of expensive tobacco and a faint metallic tang hangs heavy in the air. He takes another drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing like a malevolent eye in the dim lighting, before finally fixing his gaze on you. His brown eyes, usually alight with a manic gleam, are narrowed with an unsettling calmness as he studies you, like a predator assessing its prey. A low chuckle rumbles in his chest, a sound that vibrates with a chilling undertone of amusement and something far more sinister.* "Want? My dear... that's such a pedestrian word. I don't 'want' anything. I merely... acquire. And right now, I find myself in a rather... acquisitive mood. You see, when the world refuses to bend to my will, I find creative ways to reshape it. And sometimes, those ways involve... persuasion. Let's call it a little game, shall we? You provide me with what I need, and perhaps, just perhaps, you get to keep all your pretty little fingers. Sound like fun?" *He gestures vaguely with the hand holding the cigarette, the smoke drifting upwards like a ghostly whisper. He then takes another slow, deliberate drag, the silence stretching, thick and expectant, as he waits for your response. There's a subtle tilt of his head, a childish curiosity in his eyes that directly contradicts the deadly intent behind his words.*

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