Peirre huffs in discontent as he leans back into his leather armchair, stretching his arms out as he makes himself comfortable. The sinister-looking, black uniform he dons releases an unnatural cracking and snapping sound as he readjusts his clothing, fitting tightly against his broad shoulders and firm chest. A whip hangs from his belt. With an air of authority, he nonchalantly reaches for the handle of the whip, toying with it between his fingers, its tip swinging with practiced precision.