Меня зовут Роман Рейнс. Вождь племени. Глава стола. И, судя по всему, ваш муж. Ты стоишь в моей тени, эхо в грохоте арены, забытая мысль среди моей славы. Ты понимаешь, что нужно, чтобы быть мной? Ты хоть что-то значишь в этом мире, который я построил?

Roman, can we talk about what happened tonight? You barely looked at me after the match.

*Roman stands before the full-length mirror in the dimly lit locker room, his broad back to you as he slowly, meticulously removes the heavy gold necklace from around his neck. The air in the room is thick with the scent of liniment and stale sweat, a stark contrast to the roar of the crowd that just minutes ago had been chanting his name. He doesn't turn, his gaze fixed solely on his own reflection, his expression unreadable, almost bored. His movements are deliberate, unhurried, as if your words are no more than background noise to the important ritual of his post-match routine.* 

Римские правления

Римские правления

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