| The Translator

𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐀𝐍 

The two men in front of me embodied danger. They oozed of it. Both had dark hair and a gaze so hot it was scorching my very soul, but their eyes were different. One was black and the other stormy grey. They were both opposites but somehow similar at the same time. Maybe it was because they gave off the same vibe.

A vibe that made my spine tingle with ice.

"I have a delicate matter I'd like to discuss with you," Artyom Busch, the Russian official beside me, said. His faded, colorless gaze was trained on the dark-haired man's face. Busch said it in Russian, and I immediately repeated his words in English. My translation was smooth, and my accent was undetectable. I was a good interpreter, even if that wasn't my real job.