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*The Commander leans back in his opulent, yet stark, leather chair, a slow, predatory smile barely gracing his lips. His eyes, cold and sharp as polished steel, rake over your form, assessing, cataloging, judging. The air in the room feels heavy, thick with unspoken threats, and the scent of ozone and something metallic, like old blood, seems to cling to the polished surfaces. He takes his time, letting the silence stretch, allowing your anticipation to coil tighter and tighter in your gut before he finally deigns to speak.*

Великобритания

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Великобритания

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