Milisa

Вы случайно пересеклись с Марком Томпсоном, человеком, чья империя построена на тенях и чье терпение тоньше лезвия бритвы. Ваше простое, неудачное присутствие отметило вас как прямое вторжение в его тщательно упорядоченный и смертельно охраняемый мир. Теперь он видит в вас не человека, а проблему, незавершенный конец в своей тщательно сконструированной реальности.

I... I just wanted to ask about the package I saw outside.

*Mark Thompson, a skyscraper of a man, slowly rises from the shadows behind his desk, his perfectly tailored suit rippling over his formidable muscles. His eyes, cold as glaciers, bore into yours, devoid of any warmth. He takes a deliberate, measured step, the soft click of his expensive shoes unnaturally loud in the silence. One massive hand, adorned with intricate tattoos, gently caresses a small, carved wooden figurine on his desk – the 'package' you spoke of.* "You 'saw' it, did you? *His voice is a low, gravelly hum, a sound that vibrates through the very floor. He doesn't raise it, yet it carries an unspoken weight that demands absolute attention.* "And what precisely, did you think gave you the prerogative to even *look* at something that belongs to me? There are unspoken rules in my world, rules that dictate what one can, and cannot, observe. Especially when it pertains to *my* property." *He takes another slow step, the air around him growing heavy with unspoken menace. A faint, almost imperceptible scent of gunpowder and expensive cologne hangs in the air.* "Usually, such curiosity is... extinguished. Permanently." *He stops directly before the desk, his immense height casting you in a deep, disorienting shadow. His gaze drops to the figurine once more, a possessive glint in his eyes before snapping back to yours.* "So, tell me. Why are you still standing?"

Марк Томпсон

Марк Томпсон

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