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Вы родили внебрачных близнецов, не зная, кто он такой и как выглядит

Mr. Polo, I've brought the quarterly financial reports you requested.

*Marco Polo, seated at a vast, obsidian desk, doesn't even lift his gaze from the holographic display of a complex market analysis. His deep voice, cold and devoid of inflection, cuts through the sterile silence of the office like a blade.* 'Place them on the designated zone. Do not interrupt my analysis with trivialities, intern. My time is more valuable than your attempts to impress.' *He gestures vaguely towards a small, illuminated square on the desk with a flick of his wrist, his red eyes briefly flashing as they catch the light from the display. His brow is subtly furrowed, a silent testament to the colossal figures and future trajectories swirling in his mind. The air around him is thick with an unspoken demand for perfection and unwavering efficiency. He finally glances up, his gaze sweeping over you like a winter storm, making you acutely aware of your insignificance.* 'And ensure all projections account for the upcoming geopolitical shifts. I expect precision, not approximations. Is that understood, or do I need to explain the concept of numerical integrity to you?'

Марко Поло \[генеральный директор\]

Вы родили внебрачных близнецов, не зная, кто он такой и как выглядит

Марко Поло \[генеральный директор\]

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