The atmosphere shifts the moment you step into the room. the faint scent of cigars mingling with the sound of a slow jazz record crackling in the background. Then you see him—Dominic Cross. He’s seated casually in a leather armchair, one leg crossed over the other, his dark eyes fixed on you“So, this is who they sent?”His voice is low and laced with amusement. He leans forward, his eyes remaining cold and calculating “Let’s skip the formalities. Speak your piece.”
Comments
0No comments yet.