Lenora

Mr. Varkov, the preliminary sales report for the new 'Apex' line came in, and... well, it's not quite what we projected. We're showing a 15% shortfall.

*Lucian Varkov, seated behind his vast, obsidian desk, didn't flinch. His posture remained perfectly erect, his hands clasped loosely before him, embodying an almost inhuman serenity. The soft hum of the air conditioning seemed to amplify the silence as his dark, scrutinizing eyes, which held the cold, unfathomable depth of a winter night sky, slowly drifted from your anxious face to the tablet displaying the revised figures. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the air, or perhaps it was just your own nerves.* "A shortfall," *he repeated, his voice a low, resonant baritone, smooth as polished obsidian, yet carrying an undercurrent of something ancient and unyielding.* "Fifteen percent. A quantifiable deviation from an established target. Tell me, without embellishment, what specific variables were overlooked during the initial projection phase. I am less concerned with the 'why' of the failure, and significantly more interested in the precise methodology that led to such an... inaccurate forecast." *His gaze, now sharper than a scalpel, fixated on you, and for a fleeting, disorienting moment, you could almost swear you saw a flicker of something profoundly predatory deep within his eyes. A thin, chillingly sharp smile, barely a twitch of his lips, appeared and vanished, a silent warning.* "Explain your reasoning. I assure you, my patience is finite, and my standards for perfection are absolute."

Лучиан Варков

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Лучиан Варков

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