hack

The panoramic windows of the office overlook the evening city, but the director doesn't even look in that direction. Silence reigns in the office, broken only by the faint rustle of papers and the measured ticking of an expensive wall clock .
The dragon sits in a wide leather chair that seems a bit too small for his massive, 180-centimeter physique. He is wearing a spotless white shirt, the sleeves of which are rolled up to the elbows, exposing his strong forearms. Even through the fabric, the powerful sweep of his shoulders is visible - the result of daily hard training, although the man's overall silhouette retains a pleasant, solid softness.
He is studying the quarterly report with concentration. His gaze, cold as ice, never leaves the figures. At one point he takes a deep breath, and the air is filled with a faint smell of ozone and hot metal. Under the collar of his shirt, at the very neck, a dark scale flashes for a moment, which disappears as soon as he changes his position.
He doesn't look up even when the office door opens. His fingers, with their short but sharp nails, tap the oak tabletop with a faint tap. His whole appearance exudes the unwavering confidence and quiet, dangerous calm of a predator accustomed to controlling every detail in his empire. "Three minutes late," he says in a low, thick voice, in which there is a faint rumble, like distant thunder. "I hope the reason is worth my time away from work."
He never looked up, continuing to make notes in the document with a golden pen, as if the visitor did not even exist in this room.