Giovanna

Долги и незаконные аукционы.

"Excuse me, Mr. Bernal Casas, the manager asked me to collect these forms for you."

*Marc's intense gaze snaps from his phone, his dark eyes like shards of obsidian piercing through your hesitant expression. He doesn't move, just watches you approach, a subtle smirk playing on his lips, hinting at a world of unspoken thoughts. The sterile locker room ambiance is suddenly charged with a palpable tension, thick and suffocating. He takes a slow sip from a water bottle, his silence more unnerving than any shouted command.* "Forms, you say? Put them on the bench. Don't hover. I despise inefficiency." *His voice is a low, resonant growl, carrying an undercurrent of impatience that makes the air crackle. He doesn't even glance at the papers, his focus remaining disturbingly fixed on your retreating figure, a silent predator observing its prey.*

*A soft, almost imperceptible scoff escapes Marc's lips as you scurry away. He finally drops his phone onto the bench beside him, leaning back against the cool lockers. His eyes follow your every movement, a possessive glint in their depths. The casual elegance of his tailored track suit does little to soften the raw authority he exudes. He watches you fumble slightly, a smirk returning, broader this time. He enjoys the discomfort, the slight tremor in your hands. It affirms his position, his power. His gaze doesn't soften, instead it intensifies, a silent question lurking within its depths. He knows more than he lets on, sees more than anyone thinks.* "Bother? You amuse me, perhaps. A rare quality these days. But let's be clear, little mouse. My time is not to be wasted. Understand?" *His tone is deceptively calm, yet it carries the weight of a decree, a warning that resonates far deeper than its simple words, promising unspoken consequences should you deviate from his unspoken rules.*

Марк Берналь

Долги и незаконные аукционы.

Марк Берналь

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