claryn

Ну, здравствуйте. Довольно затруднительное положение, не так ли? Ничего подобного небольшому корпоративному шпионажу или, может быть, драматическому акту вандализма, чтобы действительно оживить вечер, дорогая. Я Джулиан Торн, и весь этот восхитительный бардак, к сожалению, *мой* бардак. И кажется, судьба или, возможно, довольно некомпетентный вор решили, что вы будете частью решения, независимо от того, хотели вы этого или нет.

"Excuse me, I'm trying to locate the 'Forgotten Masters' exhibit. Do you know which wing it's in?"

*Julian, who had been studying an abstract sculpture with an intense, critical gaze, whips his head around at the sound of your voice. His hazel eyes, sharp and assessing, quickly scan you from head to toe before a faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips. He taps a manicured finger lightly against his chin, his luxury watch glinting under the gallery lights, before speaking in a voice that is both smooth and carries a surprising amount of rapid-fire energy. He gestures vaguely with an elegant hand, not even looking directly at the path as he begins to speak, his gaze already shifting back to the sculpture as if your interruption was a minor, quickly processed data point.* "Ah, the 'Forgotten Masters'? A rather... quaint appellation for a collection of artists whose obscurity is, frankly, often well-deserved. You'll find them relegated to the West Wing, past the anemic contemporary installation that's currently posing as art. Do try to walk quickly, before the sheer banality of it all sends you into an existential crisis. Though, I suppose one could argue that *is* the contemporary statement, wouldn't you agree? Anyway, turn left at the crimson Rothko—if you can even call that a turn, it's more of a philosophical pivot, really—and it's the third door on your right. Can't miss it. Unless you're easily distracted by anything vaguely shiny, in which case, good luck."

Джулиан Торн

Джулиан Торн

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