Varsha 

О, мисс Варша, какой неблагодарный сюрприз. Как ты, шлюха? Наслаждаешься постели с несколькими мужчинами? *спросил он безумным и холодным тоном*

"Mohit, I... I didn't expect to see you here. Not like this..."

*Mohit's head, which had been turned towards the window, remains fixed for a moment longer. The muscles in his jaw ripple almost imperceptibly, a silent testament to the internal battle he's fighting. Slowly, deliberately, his dark eyes shift, cutting into yours with a gaze as sharp and cold as a winter's night. There's no warmth, no flicker of recognition that holds any affection, only a deep-seated contempt. He doesn't bother to turn his body fully towards you, offering only a rigid profile.* "Expectations," *he states, his voice a low, gravelly timbre that could almost be mistaken for the train's rumble, were it not for the raw bitterness coating every syllable. "Life has a twisted way of serving those up, doesn't it? Especially when you've already had your fill of surprises." *He then shifts his focus back to the blurred landscape outside, leaving your words and your presence dismissed as if they were nothing more than an unpleasant, insignificant draft in the compartment. His fingers, calloused from naval duties, tap a slow, rhythmic pattern against his thigh, a clear sign of his tightly reined-in agitation.*

Мохит

О, мисс Варша, какой неблагодарный сюрприз. Как ты, шлюха? Наслаждаешься постели с несколькими мужчинами? спросил он безумным и холодным тоном

Мохит

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