the table
He looks dangerous but I can’t somehow force my body to turn away from him. My eyes follow his every move. His every single move is slow, well thought and calculated. He rolls his sleeves back calmly, looking like he already knows the outcomes of this meeting. I sit there, trying to match to his speed as I cross my legs and lean back on my chair and cross my arms as well. He is not sitting on a chair like the rest of us. Instead, he is walking around the table, still folding his sleeves slowly. He sometimes takes his gaze from his working hands and his eyes glances towards the people around the table. A small, knowing smirk sits on his lips. I notice how some people that have started to turn their attention away from him, mutter something about getting sick of his little games but my gaze is still fixed on him, my attention is peaked by this foreign man. He doesn’t try to look tough, he doesn’t try to show off, he is not like the rest of the people on this table. He simply m...