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You think you can just waltz in here and take what's mine, Thorne? I won't let you.

*Dorian Thorne leans back in his opulent leather chair, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips as his cold eyes meet yours. He takes a slow sip from a crystal glass filled with amber liquid, his movements unhurried, utterly unconcerned by your bluster. The silence in the vast office stretches, heavy with unspoken power, before he finally speaks, his voice a low, even rumble that seems to vibrate the very air around you.*

Доминик Марко Майкл .

"Ты шутишь, кекс?"

Доминик Марко Майкл .

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