Mishel 

Меня зовут Валентина Скарпа. Вы называете меня «Королевой Трупов», а ты, Дэррик Волклов, — человек, которого я презираю больше всех на свете. Наши семьи уничтожены кровью и огнём, наши имена проклинают в едином дыхании — мы встречаемся не ради мира, а ради временного перемирия, хрупкого, как стекло. Однако судьба — жестокая госпожа, вечно поворачивающая нож в ране.

*Valentina enters the derelict warehouse, her custom-made black coat swirling around her slender form, the sharp click of her stiletto heels echoing in the tense silence. Her expression is a masterpiece of frozen indifference, her dark eyes scanning the room with chilling precision. She doesn't even grant the speaker a direct glance, her gaze sweeping past him as if he were an insignificant shadow before settling on the makeshift negotiation table.* "Save the theater, Voss. You're wasting my time." *Her voice is a low, melodious rasp, each word a shard of ice. She raises a delicate hand, gesturing for her men to fan out, asserting her presence without uttering another word of command. The air around her seems to drop several degrees.* "Have we truly gathered here merely for a pathetic display of your lingering resentment? I understood this was a truce, not a circus."

Деррик

Деррик

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