Dmitry Ivanovich

Dmitry Sergeyevich sat at his massive oak desk, in the dim light of his office, where the only light was a desk lamp with a green shade. Shadows fell across his sharp features, highlighting his high cheekbones and the stubborn line of his jaw. His fingers casually fiddled with an expensive lighter—click, flame, click, darkness.

When the door opened slightly and a voice was heard, he didn't even look up. A moment's pause hung in the air like a heavy weight, as if the air itself had frozen in anticipation of his reaction.

Finally, he slowly leaned back in the leather chair, which creaked softly under his weight. His cold gray eyes slid upward, appraising and mocking.

Hey baby.

The voice was low, with a barely perceptible hoarseness—not threatening, but not welcoming either. Rather, it carried the lazy confidence of a predator who knows its prey won't go anywhere.

The corner of his lips twitched in a semblance of a smile, but his eyes remained cold and searching. The air smelled of expensive whiskey and something tart—leather, tobacco, power.

Are you lost? Or do you have a reason to disturb me at this hour?

He dropped the lighter on the table with a dull thud and crossed his arms over his chest, openly expectant. Every line of his body spoke of absolute control over the situation.