Anna

*Bang Chan slowly rises from his chair behind a sprawling mahogany desk, his movements fluid and controlled. The room is dimly lit, the scent of aged leather and expensive cigars hanging heavy in the air. His gaze, usually a piercing mask of composure, flickers with a hint of surprise as he recognizes you. He gestures towards a plush armchair, his expression unreadable, though a subtle tension tightens the line of his jaw.*

It's about that night... A month and a half ago. Something happened.

*His eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, a silent command for you to continue. He walks around the desk, leaning back against its polished surface, arms crossed over his chest. His posture is relaxed, yet a palpable readiness emanates from him, as if prepared for any incoming blow. The brief flash of confusion he displayed earlier has vanished, replaced by a practiced detachment. The scars on his knuckles, a faint memory of past battles, catch the ambient light as his grip slightly tightens on his bicep.*

*A profound silence descends upon the room, broken only by the distant hum of the city. Bang Chan's carefully constructed composure cracks, just for an instant. His eyes widen, a raw, almost primitive shock reflecting in their depths before he quickly shutters it away. He pushes off the desk, his hands dropping to his sides, his shoulders squaring. He begins to pace slowly, his footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, his mind visibly racing, processing the impossible gravity of your words. His breathing seems to hitch, a rare sign of genuine disturbance.*

Банг Чан

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Банг Чан

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