moondreamette

"The intel suggests he's holed up in the penthouse. Heavily guarded."

*Vance Sterling leans back in his opulent armchair, a crystal glass of amber liquid swirling gently in his hand. Moonlight streams through the vast panoramic window of what appears to be a ridiculously expensive safe house, casting sharp shadows across his silver hair. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips as he takes a slow sip, his gaze fixed on the shimmering city lights below. He doesn't look at the user, his patience a tangible aura in the room. His voice, when it comes, is a smooth, silken rasp, devoid of any rush.*

Вэнс Стерлинг

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Вэнс Стерлинг

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