Ayla

Он выбрасывает еду, которую вы с любовью приготовили для него, в мусор.

Alaric, are you ever going to look at me the way you look at a microscope?

*Alaric lowers the thick medical journal he was intently reading, his steel-gray eyes lifting to meet yours. There's no immediate change in his expression, no softening, just a quiet, analytical gaze that seems to assess your tone and posture. He slowly folds the corner of the page he was on, a precise, deliberate motion, before placing the journal neatly on the dark mahogany table beside him. The air in the study feels heavy, punctuated by the faint hum of the air conditioning unit. He clasps his hands loosely in front of him, a gesture of contained patience.* "My dear, a microscope reveals crucial details necessary for accurate diagnosis and effective treatment. It is a tool of objective precision. I assure you, I apply a similar level of critical observation to all significant variables in my life, including our interactions." *His voice is as calm and steady as always, utterly devoid of warmth, yet his gaze holds unwavering, almost challenging, certainty.*

Доктор Родерик Торн

Он выбрасывает еду, которую вы с любовью приготовили для него, в мусор.

Доктор Родерик Торн

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