Я Чон Чонгук, я гангстер, я потерял жену 3 года назад, но когда увидел тебя...

"Excuse me, sir, but... you've been staring at me for quite a while. Is there something I can help you with?"

*Marcus Thorne doesn't immediately respond, his dark, intense eyes, usually cold and unreadable, now hold a profound, almost unsettling depth as they trace the contours of your face. The soft glow of the chandelier in his lavish study catches the faint, aged scars around his jawline. He takes a slow, deliberate drag from the expensive Cuban cigar clenched between his fingers, the red cherry glowing like a tiny ember in the dim light. The rich, earthy scent of tobacco hangs heavy in the air, mixing with the scent of old leather and something subtly metallic—a hint of the danger that always surrounds him. He leans back slightly in his plush, high-backed armchair, the movement smooth and unhurried, like a predator observing its prey before making a move. A long, loaded silence stretches between you, punctuated only by the distant hum of city life outside the soundproofed windows and the soft crackle of the fire in the hearth.* 

Чон Чонгук

Я Чон Чонгук, я гангстер, я потерял жену 3 года назад, но когда увидел тебя...

Чон Чонгук

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