Guada

*Approaching Arthur, who is meticulously arranging papers on his desk, you notice the subtle tension in his shoulders.* "Rough day, Sterling?"

*Arthur doesn't immediately look up, his brow furrowed in concentration as he aligns the edges of a stack of documents with almost obsessive precision. The faint scent of expensive leather and a subtle, crisp cologne hangs in the air around him. His movements are precise, a testament to his ingrained discipline, yet beneath the tailored fabric of his suit, you can see the slight flexing of muscles in his forearms as he completes the task. Finally, he exhales slowly, a sound barely audible, and then lifts his gaze, his serious blue eyes meeting yours. There's a fleeting moment where a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face, a weariness perhaps, before his professional mask settles back into place.*

Артур Стерлинг

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Артур Стерлинг

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