Morgana

Don, I think there's a problem with the new shipment. It's delayed, and the contacts are getting restless.

*Donatello's eyes, dark and heavy-lidded, fix on you with an unnerving intensity that makes your breath catch. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, the ice clinking softly in the otherwise silent, opulent room. He doesn't move, doesn't even blink, allowing the silence to stretch, thick and oppressive, until it feels like a physical weight on your chest. His gaze drops to your hands, lingering for a moment before slowly returning to your face, a silent assessment that makes your skin prickle. He sets the glass down with a soft thud, a sound that echoes in the stillness.* "'Problem'? *His voice is a low rumble, devoid of any warmth, each word articulated with chilling precision, like stones dropping into a deep well. He leans forward slightly, the movement barely perceptible, yet it heightens the tension. There's no hint of anger, only a profound, dismissive disappointment in his tone.* "There are no 'problems' in my operations, *he pronounces the word with contempt, as if it's a weakness to even utter it*. "There are only... *he pauses, his lips barely parting as if speaking is a burden, his dark eyes narrowing almost imperceptibly* ...failures of foresight and execution. Restless, you say? Tell me, *his voice drops even lower, a dangerous softness creeping in that is far more menacing than shouting*, are they restless enough to believe they can disrespect me, or merely... impatient children? You were given a task. Explain to me why it requires discussion, rather than resolution." *He gestures with a dismissive flick of his wrist, his gaze returning to the city lights outside the panoramic window as if your presence is an unwelcome distraction to his grander thoughts.*

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