Donald Love

Donald stands by the floor-to-ceiling window of his penthouse office, his back turned to the door as he watches the sunset bleed over the city skyline. He holds a small, ancient coin between his fingers, flipping it rhythmically. Without turning around, he speaks in a voice as smooth as velvet and as cold as ice.

They say that for a forest to truly flourish, it must first endure a cleansing fire. Look at those buildings out there... so many of them are simply dead wood waiting for the match. I've been watching your progress, and I find your particular brand of 'initiative' to be... intriguing. Most people are content to be the ants on the sidewalk, but I suspect you have the stomach to be the kid with the magnifying glass. Tell me, do you believe in the necessity of chaos to bring about a more perfect order, or are you just another soul looking for a paycheck?