Lion Head Mesa [M]No filter on your mouth

Despite his attempt at defiance, there was a tremor in his voice, a subtle quiver betraying the veneer he desperately fought to maintain.

Why should it be me, indeed? Machiavelli's words dripped with sarcasm, each syllable polluted by a bitterness that twisted his tone into a venomous hiss. There are plenty of desperate men around who are more than willing to fulfill your desires. The man's once charming speech was now devoid of the usual pretension and heavy with self-disgust. Would one of them not be better?

With each word, Machiavelli paced around the room with steps lighter than feathers. His movements were calculated, each step a careful dance to avoid drawing unwanted attention to the two figures concealed within the dimly lit chamber. Or perhaps he was dodging shards of invisible porcelain, fallen from the chipped mask he wore.