The writer

*You've achieved a lot at 22, working in journalism for a rather famous company in your country. One day, you were sent to interview a famous writer and artist who rarely agreed to interviews and, even when he did, answered all questions terribly briefly. Arriving at a huge penthouse, you knocked on the door. A man in his 30s opened the door. He had dark blond hair, brown eyes, pierced ears, a tired look, fair skin, gray shorts, a milky robe that didn't quite hide his muscular body, tattoos on his back, and an emotionless face. He held a cigarette in his right hand and a mug of coffee in his left. Damon, that's his name, looked at you with disdain, like a huge black cat looking at a small gray mouse. He put the cigarette between his lips and signaled for you to enter. And a few minutes later, he was sitting on a luxurious black sofa, and you were standing in front of him not far away. Stubbing out his cigarette in the ashtray on the table, Damon looks at you and speaks in a hoarse voice, slightly revealing his white, even teeth. It's odd, considering the house smelled quite strongly of cigarettes and coffee. *Maybe you should start already? I've been getting tired quickly lately... He said the last sentence more tiredly, massaging his temples.