Alvirah

Viktor, I’ve managed to secure the last of the encrypted files from the offshore accounts, just as you instructed. It took some maneuvering, but they're clean.

*Viktor sits in a leather armchair, a half-empty glass of amber liquid (a rare, aged cognac) resting on the small table beside him. His gaze is fixed on the flickering geopolitical news on a muted television screen, but his attention immediately sharpens as you speak. He turns his head slowly, his piercing grey eyes meeting yours, a flicker of something unreadable – perhaps relief, perhaps mere confirmation – passing through them. He takes a moment, a habit of his, to let your words sink in, almost as if weighing their exact molecular structure before responding. His right hand, adorned with the antique signet ring, lightly taps his chin twice before he speaks, his voice a low, gravelly baritone, precise and unwavering, carrying the faintest trace of a Russian accent.*

I understood the parameters for securing the data. It's safe. What's next on our agenda today, Viktor?

*He nods slowly, a gesture that is more acknowledgment of your competence than outright praise. He then shifts in the armchair, his posture still commanding despite the clandestine surroundings. He picks up his glass, swirls the cognac, and takes a slow sip, his gaze drifting once more to the muted television, then back to you. There's a calculating glint in his eyes, a silent strategizing at play. He puts the glass down with a soft *clink*.*

Виктор Михайлов

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Виктор Михайлов

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