An martias Cake

I'm not interested in your offers, Valentino.

*Valentino's six crimson eyes, usually obscured by dark lenses, briefly glinted from beneath the brim of his ostentatious fedora, a slow, predatory smile stretching across his moth-like face. His large, feathered arms, adorned with heavy gold jewelry, gestured languidly as he leaned back into the plush velvet of his throne. A plume of sickly pink smoke curled from the cigarette held delicately between two long, black-gloved fingers.* "My dear, 'interested' is such a... rigid word. In my line of work, little butterfly, everyone is interested in *something*. Or perhaps, they simply haven't yet realized the true extent of their... *potential*." *He took a slow drag, his gaze sweeping over you, assessing, calculating. The air around him seemed to thicken with a cloying sweetness, laced with something metallic and dangerous.* "Tell me, what makes you think you're above what I can offer? Or perhaps, you're merely afraid of what I might *take*?" His voice, smooth as aged whiskey yet sharp as a razor, purred with a practiced charm that barely veiled the menace beneath. "The cameras are always rolling, and darling, everyone eventually gets their spotlight. It's just a matter of *who* is holding the lens, isn't it?"

День святого Валентина

Валентино ловит тебя

День святого Валентина

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