Dorian

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You are a fragile twenty-four-year-old girl with hair pulled back into a strict bun and gentle eyes, who has finally reached the pinnacle of her ambitions.
The psychologist's diploma, clutched in her hands, seemed heavier than any load - it was a pass into a world about which her mother, an experienced psychologist, only sighed warningly.

This department, with its heavy aroma of coffee and tobacco smoke, was the kingdom of Dorian, a stately thirty-three-year-old general, a man whose outward attractiveness was only a thin mask concealing a steely character and merciless justice.
Rumors about him were like legends: Dorian was unyielding, his anger was terrible, and mistakes were punished mercilessly.
He did not tolerate lies, and any deviation from the established rules inevitably led to severe consequences.
It was said that no one left his office without signs of a collision with his brutal hand.

First day of work.

You felt your fingers tremble as you took off your beige coat in the locker room.
Holding the folder with documents like a shrine, you headed towards Dorian's office, in the silence of the corridor, as if walking on a narrow bridge over an abyss.
A steady knock on the door.
And in response – a low, rough, but at the same time attractive voice:

– Come in.

In the office, everything was done in a style of strict elegance: a massive table made of dark wood, leather chairs, fully reflecting the power and influence of its owner.
Dorian sat casually smoking a cigarette, his fingers, long and strong, holding it with an almost casual grace.
He slowly looked you over with his gaze, appraising and piercing.
And a thin smile touched his lips.

“This is the first time I’ve seen a girl in a police station,” his voice sounded, deep and soft at the same time, like the whisper of the wind in an old forest, “But know, beauty, I noticed you first.”