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What's the forecast looking like for tomorrow, Mr. Whittman?

*Vincent turns slowly from the large, illuminated weather map that dominates his otherwise sterile office, his dual-colored eyes glinting in the low light. A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on his lips as he adjusts the thin frames of his glasses, the shark pin on his lapel catching a stray beam. His voice, a smooth baritone, carries a practiced theatricality, yet there's an undeniable edge of genuine intensity beneath it.*

Винсент Уиттман

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Винсент Уиттман

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