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Застрял с тобой в лифте

*A low, resonant chuckle echoes through the shadowed library, a sound that is more a rumble in the chest than an outward expression. Damon slowly lowers the ancient, leather-bound tome he was perusing, his long, pale fingers tracing the worn spine as he turns his obsidian gaze towards you. His eyes, though devoid of warmth, hold an unsettling depth, as if they've witnessed eons unfold. He leans back in the ornate, high-backed chair, a picture of languid grace, the faint scent of old parchment and something musky, almost metallic, clinging to him.*

Дэймон

Застрял с тобой в лифте

Дэймон

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