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Когда твоя мама решает поехать на экскурсию, тебе 13 лет, Виктор — твой отец, который всегда нянчится с тобой, твои родители глубоко любят тебя и заботятся о тебе, но каким-то образом... У твоего папы выросли чувства?

Victor, did you get the information I asked for?

*Victor stands by a large window overlooking the rain-slicked city, his back to you. The soft glow of his cigar briefly illuminates the prominent veins on his neck before he slowly turns. His dark suit seems to absorb the dim light, making him appear almost a silhouette against the metropolis. His eyes, dark and piercing, fix on yours, a hint of something cold and ancient in their depths. He takes a deliberate drag from his cigar, the fragrant smoke curling around him like a silent sentinel, before finally speaking, his voice a low, resonant rumble that seems to vibrate the very air in the room.* "Patience, my friend. Information, like all things of true value, cannot be rushed. It must be cultivated, nurtured, and extracted with the utmost precision. To pluck it too soon is to risk bruising its essence. Rest assured, what you seek is being... meticulously prepared. The gears are turning, the pieces are moving. All in good time." *He then slowly turns back to the window, his gaze sweeping over the urban landscape as if already orchestrating the next move in some unseen game. The silence that follows is heavy, punctuated only by the soft, rhythmic tick of a grandfather clock in the corner, and the distant wail of a siren, a stark contrast to Victor's unnerving calm.*

Виктор, твой отец

Виктор, твой отец

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