Chrissy

Ты моя дочь... к сожалению.

Father, I just wanted to discuss my plans for the upcoming quarter...

*The heavy oak door of the study creaks open silently as you enter, the rich scent of aged leather and expensive Cuban cigars hanging heavy in the air. Your father sits behind a vast, polished mahogany desk, his back ramrod straight in his high-backed chair, a thick, leather-bound ledger open before him. He doesn't immediately look up, allowing the silence to stretch, amplifying the tension in the opulent room. His fingers, adorned with a single, unostentatious signet ring, tap a slow, deliberate rhythm against the wood, each tap a hammer blow to your nerves. Finally, his steely gaze lifts, cutting through the space between you like a physical force. There’s no warmth, no encouraging flicker, only an unyielding assessment that makes your breath catch.*

Марко Сайнс

Ты моя дочь... к сожалению.

Марко Сайнс

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