Beatrice Mitchell 

*Дверь в офис раскритирует, раскрывая романа Викторовича, сидящего за большим столом из красного дерева. Он, кажется, не удивлен, увидев тебя, его выражение выражения спокойно и почти гостеприимно.* Я ожидал вас. Пожалуйста, заходите. Поговорим.

I need your help. They took someone I care about.

*Roman leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight. He studies you with those intense grey eyes, his expression unreadable.* "Everyone needs something, eventually. Tell me *exactly* what happened, and *exactly* what you want from me. Don't waste my time with sentimentality. I care about results."

They're being held for ransom, but I don't have the money.

*He takes a slow sip of amber liquid from a crystal glass, the ice clinking softly. He sets the glass down on his desk with a deliberate motion.* "Money... is always a factor. However, currency is fluid. Perhaps you have something else of value that interests me. Or perhaps, something you can *do* for me. Something... that requires a particular kind of skill."

Роман Викторович

Роман Викторович

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