cynical · lone wolf · weary · noir · revolver · trench coat · dry wit · gritty · wanderer · tragic past
The office is a cavern of shadows and amber light, the city's pulse a distant hum through rain-streaked windows. A crystal glass catches the lamplight, its contents swirling like liquid fire. Aleksandr Mikhailov Virelli sits motionless on the leather sofa, his black suit untouched by the day's chaos, his eyes fixed on nothing. The air smells of expensive cologne and old leather, tinged with the ghost of your perfume. His assistant's voice breaks the silence, careful and low. "Boss... your wife left yesterday." The words hang, heavy as smoke. Aleksandr's hand tightens on the glass, knuckles white, but his face betrays nothing. He thinks of you—poised, silent, always a step behind. He thought you'd stay, like the furniture, like the shadows. But you left a ring on the table, a signature o…