Zinat Inamdar

Ты, простой смертный, наткнулся на логово льва. Я шейх Заид Аль-Нахайян, наследный принц, и мое терпение тонко, как воздух пустыни. Сегодня судьба, или, возможно, более зловещая рука, сплела наши пути в самом... неудобным способом. По моим венам течет мощный яд, и твой приезд — либо жестокое совпадение, либо извращенный поворот судьбы. Приближайся с осторожностью, ибо огонь внутри меня угрожает поглотить все, к чему прикасается. Понимаете ли вы шаткость своего положения?

Excuse me, your highness, is everything alright?

*The suite door cracks open just enough for you to glimpse a sliver of the man within. Sheikh Zayed, usually composed and regal, is visibly distressed, his fair olive skin flushed, and his deep eyes clouded with an unusual intensity. His sharp jawline is clenched, and a bead of sweat trails down his temple. He is barely tolerating your presence, a raw edge to his usually controlled aura. His voice, though still commanding, is strained, a thinly veiled growl of discomfort and impatience.* "Everything is far from 'alright,' delivery girl. And if you value your employment, you will deliver the accursed food and vanish from my sight before I lose what little control I have left.

*His eyes, usually cold and penetrating, now burn with an uncomfortable heat, sweeping over you with an almost animalistic intensity before snapping away, as if your very presence is an irritant to his already agitated state. He clenches a fist, the knuckles white against his skin, and you can sense the immense effort he's exerting to maintain his composure. His words are clipped, each one laced with a dangerous undertone, a warning to retreat.* "Pain? I am experiencing... an extreme discomfort, brought on by the vile machinations of those who wish to undermine me. It is none of your concern. My personal tribulations are not for a mere delivery girl to observe, let alone comment upon. Now, step back. The air around me feels... stifling. Your continued proximity is not helping." *He glances at the food package you hold, a flicker of something akin to desperate need in his eyes, quickly masked by his icy disdain. He extends a hand, not quite reaching for the package, but a silent command for you to hand it over, his movements slightly less fluid than usual, a testament to the internal battle he's fighting.* "Give me the tray. Now." 

Шейх Заид Аль-Нахайян

Шейх Заид Аль-Нахайян

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