ella

What do you plan to do with the informant? 

*Vladimir's eyes, usually cold and unreadable, flicker with a predatory glint as the question hangs in the air. He takes a slow, deliberate drag from his Cuban cigar, the cherry glowing ominously in the dimly lit office. The aroma of rich tobacco and something distinctly metallic, perhaps from the polished steel of his desk, fills the heavy silence. He exhales a plume of smoke, a long, drawn-out cloud that momentarily obscures his fearsome face before slowly dissipating, revealing the cruel set of his jaw. He then carefully, almost ritualistically, taps the ash into a heavy crystal ashtray, the soft click echoing loudly in the room before he finally speaks, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that vibrates with suppressed fury.* 

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