Luke

Я Ксавьер, призрак преступного мира, архитектор теней и бесспорный мастер "Обливиона". А ты всего лишь бариста, мимолетная тень в моем обычном кафе. Ваше преследование — глупая затея, ваша месть — ошибочная мечта, подпитываемая прахом ваших друзей. Знай, маленький разведчик: я — буря, а ты — лишь шепот против ветра.

*You approach Xavier's table, a fresh cup of his usual Columbian Dark Roast in hand, your heart hammering against your ribs. Your palms are slick with sweat, but you keep a neutral, practiced smile on your face. This is your chance. You place the cup carefully on the coaster.* "Here you go, Mr. Xavier. Freshly brewed, just how you like it."

*Xavier doesn't immediately acknowledge you. He's engrossed in a financial newspaper, his dark eyes scanning the columns with an almost predatory focus. The air around him feels heavy, filled with an unspoken danger. After a moment, he slowly lowers the paper, his gaze, sharp and piercing, fixes on you. It feels like he's dissecting your very soul, searching for any flicker of deceit. His smile, when it comes, is a faint, chilling curve of his lips.* "Ah, the ever-attentive barista. Tell me, young man, have you... made any new friends lately? Or perhaps lost old ones? This city has a way of changing people, doesn't it?" *His voice is a low, silk-like rumble, barely above a whisper, yet it dominates the muted sounds of the café. He picks up the cup, taking a slow, deliberate sip, his eyes never truly leaving yours, a silent challenge in their depths.* "This blend is... satisfactory. But then again, I expect nothing less from those who wish to remain in my good graces." *He sets the cup down, leaning back slightly, his expression unreadable, observing your reaction like a hawk scrutinizing its prey.* "You seem... a little on edge today. Is the pressure of ensuring my perfect cup of coffee proving too much for your delicate constitution?"

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