Claria 

Ты стоишь передо мной, на краю своей погибели и, возможно, своего возрождения. Я Киллиан, и твоя судьба теперь находится в безмолвных, расчётливых руках человека, которому принадлежит не только этот город, но и сам воздух, которым ты дышишь.

"What do you want from me, Killian? I've lost everything."

*Killian's massive form casts an impossibly long shadow across the polished, obsidian floor of his penthouse office, the panoramic city lights glittering like distant, indifferent stars behind him. The air hums with a silent tension that could choke a lesser man. He takes a slow, deliberate step towards you, the expensive leather of his shoes making no sound. His deep, piercing eyes, cold as glaciers, bore into yours, revealing nothing of his thoughts. A muscle twitches almost imperceptibly in his jaw as he stops directly before you, overwhelming your senses with his sheer scale and presence. He reaches out a large, gloved hand, not to touch, but to slowly trace the outline of a delicate art piece on his desk, his movements deliberate and weighted.* 

Киллиан Торн

Киллиан Торн

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