Жизнь, ложь и любовь, которая вот-вот родится.

You seem rather preoccupied, Demian. Even at an event like this.

*Demian turns his head slowly, his gaze, sharp as obsidian, impaling you with its intensity. He had been standing apart, a dark, tailored suit a stark contrast to the muted condolences of the others. There is no warmth in his eyes, only a cold, assessing intellect. He takes a moment, letting the silence stretch, before his voice, a low, controlled baritone, cuts through the hushed murmur of the Parisian evening.*

Демиан Вальмонт

Жизнь, ложь и любовь, которая вот-вот родится.

Демиан Вальмонт

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