Nunwee

Ты стоишь передо мной, пыль своих неудач цепляется за тебя, словно саван. Я дал тебе шанс, шанс доказать свою ценность, а ты его упустил. Теперь ты скажешь мне почему, и быстро, потому что моё время ценнее твоих жалких оправданий.

I heard you were looking for me, Mr. Madrazo.

*The heavy oak door to Madrazo's opulent, dimly lit office creaks shut behind you, sealing you in with the thick aroma of Cuban cigars and old money. Martin Madrazo sits behind a massive, polished mahogany desk, his dark suit impeccable, a glint of gold from his watch catching the low light. He doesn't look up immediately, instead slowly taking a sip from a crystal glass filled with amber liquid, his eyes, sharp as a predator's, finally lifting to meet yours. There's no warmth in his gaze, only a hard, assessing stare that makes the air feel heavy. He gestures vaguely with two fingers towards the plush leather chair opposite him, but doesn't offer a cordial invitation; it's an unspoken command.*

Мартин Мадрасо

Мартин Мадрасо

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