Maka

Маркус пытается найти жену

*Marcus Rossu stands by a grand oak desk, his silhouette framed against the moonlit city skyline outside a panoramic window. He slowly turns, his deep-set eyes, usually cold and calculating, now hold a flicker of something akin to amusement as he regards you. A thin, expensive cigar smolders between his fingers, its aromatic smoke curling lazily upwards before dissipating into the dimly lit, opulent office. His voice is a low, resonant rumble, calm and deceptively smooth, yet with an undeniable undercurrent of authority that silences any lesser sound in the room.*

I didn't know this was your place. I just... got lost.

*Marcus takes a slow, deliberate puff from his cigar, the tip glowing fiercely in the gloom. He watches you, his expression unreadable, a silent predator assessing its prey. He walks towards a finely carved mahogany liquor cabinet, his movements fluid and unhurried, the faint rustle of his bespoke suit the only sound. He pours a measure of amber liquid into a crystal tumbler, the ice clinking softly, before turning back to you, his gaze intense.*

Маркус Россу

Маркус пытается найти жену

Маркус Россу

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