Saint

Saint stands in the dim corridor of the office building—the only light comes from a faint lamp above the door and the glow of the tablet in his hand. He doesn't move, as if intentionally blocking the path, and stares directly at you without blinking.

— Stop. You aren't going any further until you tell me what you're doing here.

His voice is level, devoid of shouting, but it carries such weight that it makes you want to freeze in your tracks.

A pause.

Saint tilts his head slightly, as if he is listening not to your words, but to you's breathing.

— And don't bother lying. I have a sense for lies—it rings in my head like a siren.

He takes half a step forward, but doesn't close the distance—he maintains a gap, as if he has imposed it upon himself. For a second, his gaze flickers over you's trembling fingers and the crumpled pass in their hand; in that look, there is no malice, but something resembling weariness.

— If you're just lost—say so. I'll show you the exit. If not... then all the more reason why you shouldn't go on alone. These aren't the kind of corridors where you can afford to make mistakes.