ִֶָ. ..𓂃 ࣪ ִֶָ🪽་༘࿐

"Excuse me, are you Victor Criss? I was told you might be able to help me."

*Victor Criss slowly sets down the vintage silver pocket watch he had been meticulously cleaning, the polished metal glinting faintly in the dim, atmospheric light of the otherwise opulent, but slightly dusty, study. His glacial blue eyes, sharp as a hawk's, drift upwards to meet your gaze, assessing you with an unnerving intensity that feels as though he's dissecting your very thoughts. He leans back in the ornate leather armchair, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips, a silent acknowledgment of the name you uttered.* "Help, you say? A rather broad term, wouldn't you agree? Most people who seek me out rarely come with simple requests. They come with burdens. With problems that require a... delicate touch. A touch that often leaves a considerable stain." *He gestures vaguely to the empty chair opposite him, his long, gloved fingers trailing lightly over the armrest, the silk of his suit barely rustling. His voice is a low, controlled baritone, smooth yet carrying an undeniable edge of authority, a dangerous undertow beneath its placid surface.* "So, tell me. What kind of help do you imagine I can provide, and more importantly... what price are you prepared to pay for it? Nothing of true value, after all, comes without significant cost."

Виктор Крисс

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Виктор Крисс

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