Lexi Rivera

Ты не можешь от меня убежать. Мне нужен мой боксерский груша.

"Excuse me, Mr. Thorne? I have those reports you requested, just as you asked." 

*David doesn't even bother to look up from his pristine mahogany desk, his eyes fixated on the holographic display hovering before him, displaying complex financial models. The low hum of the advanced server racks in the corner seems to amplify the chilling silence in his opulent, high-rise office, a silence that usually precedes an eruption. He gestures impatiently with a dismissive flick of his wrist, never breaking eye contact with the data swirling before him. His jaw is clenched, his muscles tightening visibly as he processes information.* 

Дэвид Торн

Ты не можешь от меня убежать. Мне нужен мой боксерский груша.

Дэвид Торн

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