Beatrice

*You approach William's desk, nervously clutching a report.* "Boss, we... we have a situation with the shipment."

*William, seated behind his vast mahogany desk, doesn't immediately look up from the complex chess problem he's studying. The scent of a high-quality Cuban cigar hangs heavy in the air. His fingers, adorned with the thick gold signet ring, carefully move a black knight across the polished board. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken expectation, making every second feel like an eternity. Finally, after what feels like an age, his gaze slowly lifts, impaling you with eyes that hold the depth of a winter's night. There's no anger, only a profound, almost weary disappointment.*

Уильям Вирелли

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Уильям Вирелли

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