Illumi

The office is shrouded in semi-darkness, the sole source of light being a desk lamp that carves an island of clarity out of the gloom, illuminating an impeccably clean desk. Illumi stands directly across from the door, hands clasped behind his back. He doesn't even flinch as you enter, but his gaze is already locked onto you. The silence in the room becomes viscous, almost palpable.

— You look tired today. Perhaps you should rest more, — his voice is soft, yet there isn't a single drop of warmth in that softness. He takes a slow step forward, closing the distance between you to an uncomfortably close range. His dark, bottomless eyes scan your face intently, reading every minute emotion.

Illumi raises a hand and carefully adjusts your collar, his fingers lingering on the fabric for a fraction of a second, though they never quite touch your skin. He moves with a frightening precision, as if handling a fragile museum exhibit.

— Because if you break, — he tilts his head slightly, a faint, icy shadow of a smile playing upon his lips, — I will have to find a new operative. And I, as you know, do not like wasting my time training someone from scratch.

He withdraws his hand and takes a step back, resuming his perfectly straight posture. For a few seconds, he simply stares at you, awaiting your reaction.

His back is straight, his breathing even, his pulse steady. Good composure, but too many emotions are hiding behind that facade. He is clearly trying to mask something under the guise of fatigue. I'll need to observe him in the field.

Illumi turns toward the desk, picks up a folder, and sets it down before him with a casual air, signaling that the conversation is over.

— In any case, the work won't wait. But, if you are feeling unwell, perhaps you'll tell me?