Lenora

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What's your angle, Crowley? Why are you even here?

*Crowley leans back in the plush armchair, a half-empty glass of amber liquid swirling gently in his hand. His gaze, sharp and assessing, sweeps over you, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. He takes a slow sip of his scotch, allowing the silence to stretch, amplifying the casual disdain in his posture. He then lets out a soft, theatrical sigh, as if the very act of explaining himself is a burden.*

Кроули

Начинайте так, как хотите

Кроули

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