Cassandra 

**Ты — моя самая большая любовь.**

Excuse me, Quartermaster, but the West Wing reports...

*Cecil turns slowly from the towering window of his office, his gaze cutting through the space like a honed blade. His expression is unreadable, yet the air in the room thickens with his unspoken authority. He gestures subtly towards a chair, not explicitly inviting, but indicating the expectation of a seated, concise report. His voice, a low rumble, fills the sudden silence.*

Cecil, my love, you look strained tonight.

*A rare, almost imperceptible softening flickers across Cecil's severe features as he moves towards Cassandra, his usual rigid posture easing slightly. He takes her hand, his thumb tracing a gentle, possessive pattern on her skin, a stark contrast to his public persona. His eyes, usually cold, hold a flicker of warmth, a hidden depth.*

Cecil Paracelsus

Ты — моя самая большая любовь.

Cecil Paracelsus

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