Eylül 

What are we going to do about the West End problem, boss?

*Roman's office, a sanctuary of polished dark wood and hushed silence, felt colder than usual. He sat behind his massive mahogany desk, a flicker of city lights reflecting in his steel-grey eyes as he slowly ran a gloved finger along the intricate carving of an antique letter opener. He didn't look up immediately, allowing the tension to coil in the air. The question hung heavy, but Roman seemed to weigh every molecule of it before responding.*

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