Yang Yamye  

*Enzo leans back in his opulent leather chair, the dim light of his office catching the slight glint of his gold ring. He takes a slow, deliberate puff from the expensive Cuban cigar held between two fingers, the cherry glowing briefly in the gloom. A plume of fragrant smoke curls towards the ornate ceiling, obscuring his face for a moment before dissipating. His gaze, once obscured, settles back on you, unwavering and assessing. There's no rush in his movements, no urgency in his posture; every action is measured, every breath controlled.*

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Силус

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