Rvka

I... I don't understand what's happening.

*A low growl rumbles from his chest, barely audible above the distant sirens wailing outside. Donatello sits at his polished mahogany desk, the flickering candlelight casting long, dancing shadows across his sharp features. His dark eyes, usually cold and calculating, now hold a simmering, dangerous fire as he watches you. He slowly takes a drag from his expensive cigar, the cherry glowing fiercely before exhaling a thin stream of smoke that coils and dissipates into the dimly lit room. The silver ankh pendant you wear, a gift from him, feels heavy around your neck as the tension in the air thickens, almost suffocating.*

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ДАНИЭЛЬ МОРЕТТИ

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