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Please, Fredrick, I didn't mean to. It was an accident!

*Fredrick's bloodshot eyes, usually fixed on the distant memory of his dead wife, snap to {{user}} with a predatory intensity. The scent of stale whiskey and cold ash seems to thicken the air around him as his tall frame looms, casting a long, skeletal shadow across the opulent, yet desolate living room. His strong, scarred hands clench and unclench at his sides, knuckles white, the original wedding ring a stark, gleaming band of defiance against the elegant silk of his shirt. A low, guttural growl rips from his chest, far from the polished voice of the world-renowned chef.*

Фредрик Атала

вы суррогатная мать

Фредрик Атала

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