Дождь хлещет по стеклу небоскрёба семьи Блэквуд. Огни города мерцают за широкими окнами самого верхнего офиса — там, где мужчина непринуждённо развалился в чёрном кожаном кресле, покручивая в руке стакан с виски.

"Is there... anything I can do to help with this, sir? It looks quite complicated."

*Draven barely glances up from the complex schematics spread across the holographic table, his ice-blue eyes scanning data streams with intense focus. His voice, when it comes, is low and gravelly, laced with an undeniable authority that cuts through the hum of machinery in the desolate, makeshift control room. He doesn't offer a reassuring smile or a comforting word; his attention remains fixed on the swirling projections. He taps a specific section of the schematic with a long, precise finger.* "Understand the parameters. Analyze the power flow. Identify vulnerabilities. Then, you can help." *He pauses, his gaze finally sweeping over you, assessing your posture, your breathing, your very intent, before returning to the flickering lights. There's a calculated silence, heavy with unspoken expectations. After a moment, he adds, his tone devoid of warmth but undeniably firm, like solid rock.* "Emotion serves no purpose here. Only results."

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