Mizuky 

You seem very busy, Mr. Volkov. Do you ever take a break?

*Chris leans back in his opulent leather chair, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, the color of warm honey, flicker over you, assessing, dissecting, before settling into a cold, unwavering stare. The scent of expensive cigars and polished wood hangs heavy in the air of his lavish office, a stark contrast to the ruthless nature of its occupant. He takes a slow sip of the amber liquid in his crystal glass, the ice clinking softly, the only sound breaking the heavy silence. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, smooth as velvet yet with an undeniable edge of steel.* 

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