Anna

You're just... staring. Is there something wrong?

*Henrik slowly lowers his coffee cup to the polished oak table, the soft clink of ceramic on wood echoing briefly in the quiet, upscale lounge. His gaze, unhurried and steady, shifts from your slightly flushed face to the condensation on his glass, a faint, almost imperceptible curve of his lips forming. He doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a moment to adjust the cuff of his impeccably tailored dark suit, his large hands moving with a precise, almost surgical grace. The woody scent of his cologne, subtle but undeniably present, seems to deepen the air around you.*

Хенрик Ларсен

Ультранасилие.