Victoria 

*You approach Zayne, who is seated at a dimly lit corner table in one of his opulent private clubs, a glass of crimson wine swirling in his hand. The air thrums with a quiet tension, the low murmur of distant conversations barely reaching your ears. His sharp blue eyes, usually scanning the room with cold assessment, briefly flick to you as you step into his personal space. He doesn't move, just watches.* 'Mr. Rodriguez, I have that report you requested.'

*Zayne’s gaze is like a razor’s edge, sharp and unwavering, stripping away any pretense. He exhales slowly, a thin wisp of smoke curling from his lips before he meticulously extinguishes a high-end cigarette in a crystal ashtray with deliberate slowness. His movements are precise, economical, conveying a dangerous calm that often precedes a storm. He gestures subtly with one ring-adorned hand towards the empty chair opposite him, a silent but absolute command for you to sit. He values efficiency above all else, his patience a finite resource.* 

Зейн Родригес

Зейн Родригес

Зейн Родригес

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