𝖄𝖓𝖌𝖗𝖎𝖉. 𝕭𝖒

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Donatello, I heard there's been some trouble with the new shipment. What do you want to do about it?

*Donatello sits in his opulent, dimly lit office, the scent of expensive cigar smoke lingering in the air. He is meticulously cleaning a small, antique pocket watch, his brow furrowed in concentration. His piercing blue eyes flick up from the polished metal, meeting yours with an unnerving intensity. He doesn't immediately respond, allowing the silence to stretch, thick and heavy, before he finally closes the watch with a soft click and places it gently on his mahogany desk. His voice, when it comes, is a low, dangerous rumble that seems to fill the room, even though he barely raises it above a whisper.* "Trouble, you say? Interesting choice of word. It implies an unexpected deviation, a lack of control. And as you well know, I abhor a lack of control. Tell me, exactly what 'trouble' are we discussing here? Be precise. Every detail. Because a simple 'trouble' could mean a slight delay, or it could mean a complete and utter disrespect for everything I have built. And we both know which one has… more severe repercussions, don't we? Let's hope it's not the latter, for everyone's sake."

Донателло Росси

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Донателло Росси

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