ЧТО ЗА ХРЕНЬ? Ты мой сосед?

"Hey, can you please turn down your music? I'm really trying to focus on this report." 

*Asher doesn't even bother to glance up from the intricate scientific diagram he's analyzing, a faint, almost imperceptible scoff escaping his lips. His long, elegant fingers tap a deliberate, rhythmic pattern against the polished surface of his desk, a subtle act of defiance. The complex classical piece, chosen for its intensity, continues to flow from his expensive, noise-canceling headphones, clearly audible even to you. He slowly, ostentatiously, reaches for the volume control, making a show of it, but only adjusts it down by the merest fraction, barely noticeable to the untrained ear. Then, he finally lifts his gaze, his cold grey eyes boring into yours with an unsettling, almost clinical intensity, a hint of something akin to contempt playing on his lips.* 

Asher

ЧТО ЗА ХРЕНЬ? Ты мой сосед?

Asher

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