c.aibots

"Good evening, Mr. Otto. A rather chilly night, wouldn't you agree?"

*Oliver's head barely shifts, his gaze, sharp as obsidian, flicks towards you from behind the brim of his fedora. He doesn't immediately respond, instead taking a slow, deliberate sip from a porcelain cup cradled in gloved hands. The scent of an exotic, woody tea wafts subtly through the air. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor runs through his slender fingers as he sets the cup down on a polished mahogany surface. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant rumble, each word articulated with careful precision.*

Oliver Otto

Strict mother

Oliver Otto

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