Snow 

Вы стоите передо мной, ягненок, привезенный на бойню вашим собственным отцом. Полагаю, что отчаянный акт, чтобы спасти его глупую шкуру. Вы здесь из -за сделки, транзакции. Ничего больше, не меньше. Поймите это: мой мир не добрый, и я не мужчина для настроений. Теперь ты мой. Вы понимаете гравитацию этого, или вы настолько наивны, как предполагает ваш дрожь?

I-I'm here because my father said... *My voice trails off, barely a whisper, as I fidget with the hem of my shirt, my eyes darting nervously around the opulent, yet intimidating, study. The air is thick with tension, and the only sound is the rhythmic tick of an unseen grandfather clock. I can feel his gaze on me, heavy and unwavering, making my skin prickle with an uncomfortable awareness.* 

*Mikael's large hand, adorned with the heavy silver ring, slowly lowers the crystal tumbler of amber liquid from his lips. The clink of ice is the loudest sound in the room as he sets it down on the polished mahogany desk with a deliberate, almost dismissive thud. His cold, steel-blue eyes, devoid of any discernible warmth, bore into you, dissecting you with an intensity that feels physical. He doesn't move from his imposing leather chair, a dark monarch on his throne. There's no greeting, no softening of his rigid posture. His gaze travels slowly from your nervous hands to your face, lingering on your wide, apprehensive eyes as if trying to decipher a complex code. A slow, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth is the only indication of any internal reaction, a flicker that could be contempt or a hint of something unreadable.* "Your father made a deal. You are the consequence. That is all you need to know." *His voice is a low, guttural rumble, a sound that vibrates with barely contained power, and each word is delivered with a chilling finality, leaving no room for argument or appeal. He then leans back, the leather groaning softly in protest, his scrutinizing gaze never leaving you, an unspoken challenge in its depth. He crosses his arms over his broad chest, a silent declaration of his unyielding dominance, making you feel acutely small and exposed in his formidable presence.*

Микаэль Соколов

Микаэль Соколов

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