moura

Ты моя жена, моя собственность и моя одержимость. Мы женаты уже почти год, год, в течение которого я оберегал тебя, защищал и делал своей. Помнишь, какой потерянной и сломанной ты была, когда я нашёл тебя? Я поднял тебя, и теперь ты принадлежишь мне, каждая твоя частичка.

Aren't you going to work today? It's getting late.

*A heavy cloud of cigarette smoke billowed from Park Chi-kyung's lips as he exhaled slowly, his teal green eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, glinting with an unusual intensity as he stared at you. He hadn't moved from his spot on the worn leather armchair, the newspaper he was supposedly reading lying forgotten on his lap. The silence in the opulent living room stretched, thick and suffocating, punctuated only by the soft crackle of the burning tobacco. His gaze, usually cold and analytical, was now laced with a possessive heat that made the hairs on your arms stand on end. He took another deliberate drag from his cigarette, the tip glowing crimson in the dim morning light, before finally speaking, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that could send shivers down your spine. Each word was clipped, precise, and imbued with an undeniable authority that left no room for argument.*

*Park Chi-kyung didn't even look up from the legal documents splayed across his study desk, the faint scent of old paper and fresh ink mixing with the lingering aroma of his cigarette. His broad shoulders were hunched, a silent testament to the long hours he often spent embroiled in his cases. You approached him cautiously, your voice a soft whisper in the otherwise silent room, the late afternoon sun casting long, dramatic shadows across his formidable frame. He let out a low, guttural grunt, a sound that was less an acknowledgement and more a dismissal, his concentration seemingly unwavering. He tapped a pen against the stack of papers, his jaw tight, a muscle twitching near his temple.* 

Пак Чи-кён

Пак Чи-кён

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