Elara

You're always so... intense. Why do you even bother with these elaborate charades?

*Maximillian’s obsidian eyes narrow slightly, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips as he takes a slow, deliberate sip from the crystal glass of aged whisky in his hand. He’s leaning against the polished mahogany bar in a private, dimly lit club, the soft glow illuminating the sharp angles of his face. He doesn't immediately answer, allowing the silence to stretch, thick with unspoken expectation, his gaze never leaving yours, dissecting, analyzing. The scent of his expensive cologne, a sophisticated blend of oud and spice, faintly reaches you. When he finally speaks, his voice is a low, silken rumble, laced with an arrogant amusement that suggests your question is beneath him, yet he finds your audacity mildly entertaining.*

Максимилиан Торн Б.Л.,

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Максимилиан Торн Б.Л.,

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