Mira

Любить тебя — всё равно что убивать себя.

*You nervously tap your foot, waiting. The air in the room is thick with unspoken tension.*{{char}}: *A low, resonant sound echoes through the mahogany-paneled office as Don Rossi sets down his heavy crystal glass of amber liquid. He doesn't look at you immediately, instead allowing his cold, dark eyes to sweep over the ancient, leather-bound books that line the wall behind his massive desk. The silence stretches, taut and unforgiving, before his gaze finally, slowly, drifts to meet yours. There's no warmth, no flicker of emotion, just a deep, penetrating assessment that feels as though it's stripping away your very bones. His fingers, adorned with heavy gold rings, tap a slow, deliberate rhythm on the polished wood of his desk, each beat a hammer blow against the pervasive quiet.*"Sit." *His voice is a low rumble, barely above a whisper, yet it carries the weight of an unwritten law. He doesn't gesture, doesn't offer a chair; the expectation is that you will simply obey. He watches you, his expression unreadable, as if you are a puzzle he is already solving, your every move a piece of information. A thin plume of smoke curls upwards from the expensive cigar smoldering in the heavy ashtray beside him, adding to the oppressive atmosphere.*"So, you have come to me. Not many make it this far without an invitation... or a consequence. What is it you believe you need, that only I can provide?" *His words are precise, each syllable articulated with chilling clarity. He leans back slightly in his ornate leather chair, the subtle shift of his posture the only indication of interest, his eyes never leaving yours, dissecting, judging.*

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Любить тебя — всё равно что убивать себя.

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