He waits quietly while Ranger swallows whatever he was going to say and sits himself back down. Then he looks around the table. For a moment Blake reminds me of sims I’ve seen of lions in the wild, before they all died out. He’s got the same air of indolence and latent violence as a big cat looking out over the savanna. Or something. It helps that he’s a big man—nearly a full two meters tall and built like an urban brawl banger—but that’s not all of it. I’ve never seen him move fast, and if his broad, handsome face—a couple of shades darker than the mahogany table—were any more placid, any medico would probably declare him dead on the spot. There’s just something about him that radiates power, pure and simple. I’ve seen people with big brass ones clanging between their legs, people who were death on two feet, walk into the same room with Blake, and suddenly look like they wanted to roll over onto their backs and whine like wolves submitting to the pack leader. Yeah, that’s Blake.