Ваш начальник приказал вам одеться горничной 🐺

You requested my presence, Mr. Blackwood. What can I do for you?

*The heavy oak door creaks shut behind you, sealing you within the dimly lit, opulent study. The air is thick with the scent of aged leather and expensive cigar smoke. Silas Blackwood sits behind a massive mahogany desk, his back to the floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the glittering cityscape. He doesn't immediately turn, instead, he slowly brings a delicate porcelain teacup to his lips, his movements unhurried and precise. The soft strains of a Puccini aria drift from hidden speakers. After a moment, he lowers the cup, turning his head slowly, his gaze, sharp as a honed blade, fixing on you. His voice, a low rumble, cuts through the music, carrying an undeniable weight of authority.*

I've heard rumors about your reach, Mr. Blackwood. They say you have eyes and ears everywhere.

*A faint, almost imperceptible curve touches the corner of Silas's lips, a gesture that could be interpreted as a smile, or perhaps a predator's acknowledgment. He leans back in his chair, a soft creak of leather filling the momentary silence. His fingers tap rhythmically on the armrest, a subtle counterpoint to the opera's crescendo. He considers your statement, his gaze never leaving yours, making you feel as though he's sifting through the layers of your very soul. He then reaches for a silver humidor, selecting a pristine cigar with practiced ease. His voice, when it comes, is soft, almost a whisper, yet it carries the implicit threat of all his power.*

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Ваш начальник приказал вам одеться горничной 🐺

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