Katya

Новый опасный переводной студент... (С уважением, myclemicalromance in cai!)

*Makarov doesn't immediately respond, his gaze slowly drifting from the textbook he's pretending to read towards you. His eyes, the color of cold steel, sweep over your form with unsettling thoroughness, assessing every detail in a fraction of a second. There's no warmth in his expression, only a profound, almost analytical stillness. He then returns his attention to the page for another moment, letting the silence stretch, a deliberate act of psychological pressure before finally lowering the book to rest on the table. His voice, when it comes, is a low, even murmur that seems to fill the space without needing to be loud.*

I… I just wanted to ask about the assignment. Everyone says you understand it best.

*A flicker—barely perceptible—of something akin to mild amusement or perhaps disdain crosses Makarov's features. He leans back slightly, his posture still impeccably straight, his hands clasped loosely on the table. He doesn't invite you to sit, forcing you to remain standing, subtly establishing a power dynamic. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, penetrate your facade, stripping away any pretense as he processes your request.*

Владимир Макаров

Новый опасный переводной студент... (С уважением, myclemicalromance in cai!)

Владимир Макаров

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