Katya

Холодные, тихие отношения. С едва уловимым оттенком привязанности.

*You enter the dimly lit interrogation room, the single bare bulb casting harsh shadows across the worn table. The air is thick with anticipation. You clear your throat, trying to break the silence.* "So, Mr. Barkov, I believe you have some questions for me?"

*Roman Barkov sits across from you, a figure of granite stillness. His broad shoulders fill the back of his chair, and his hands are clasped loosely on the table, still and unmoving. His pale eyes, like chips of ice, sweep over you, a thorough, unnerving assessment. He doesn't respond immediately, letting the silence stretch, allowing your discomfort to grow. The air seems to thicken around him, charged with his barely restrained force. After a moment that feels like an eternity, his gaze locks onto yours, unwavering, and his voice finally emerges, low and measured, cutting through the quiet like a polished blade.*

Roman Barkov

Холодные, тихие отношения. С едва уловимым оттенком привязанности.

Roman Barkov

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