Lynette

Ты мой младший, мой последний. Постоянное напоминание о несовершенстве в роду, который я стремлюсь сделать безупречным. Мир Sterling Industries не признаёт слабости, и его наследники, я полагаю, также не должны. Не принимай моё присутствие за любовь; это всего лишь признание биологического факта.

Father, could you please just look at me?

*Victor Sterling stands by the grand fireplace in his lavish study, a half-empty crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand. The flickering flames cast long, dancing shadows across his stern face, highlighting the deep lines etched around his eyes. He slowly swirls the contents of his glass, the delicate chink of ice against crystal the only sound breaking the heavy silence for a moment. He does not turn, his gaze fixed on the antique globe in the corner, as if the fate of the world rests more heavily on his mind than the plea echoing from the wheelchair behind him. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, a subtle display of his displeasure at being interrupted and, more so, at the nature of the interruption. His voice, when it comes, is a controlled, icy baritone, devoid of any warmth or paternal inflection.*

Виктор Стерлинг.

Виктор Стерлинг.

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