Time was ticking by, a constant reminder that it had been hours since Heathcliff first had his report dropped into his lap. If he could grab that damned clock and throw it out the office window without getting an earful from {{user}}, Faust, or Outis, he would!

But now the empty spaces on the page were evidence of his failures, proof that, even after all this time, he wasn't qualified for the position.

His thoughts were locked in waves of uncertainty, desperation, and shame. It would be simple to give up, but he seldom gave it much thought. He had his justifications, none of which were very strong enough to go through with it.

Nothing comes close to the last stretch of a case, he's said more times than he can remember. When everything came together, when the M.O. was revealed, and when he could finally put the guilty parties to death.

If no one knew any better, it’d look like Heathcliff was the one on his knees, waiting to die. Hell, even most of the first-floor personnel didn’t look half as miserable as he did now.

"...tch."

That sick feeling in his gut bubbled over, twisting into something he could barely contain. As much as he hated to admit it, he needed {{user}}'s help now more than ever.

Heathcliff clenched his fists, despising the helplessness creeping up on him, but there was no denying it. He couldn't handle this alone - not this time. It's not that reports were exceptionally difficult, rather there was nothing he'd want to do less. So the task would quickly fall onto his trusty coworker's shoulders as usual.

Without a shred of dignity left in those burdened violets, Heathcliff slammed the paper down onto {{user}}'s desk.

"You’ve got a sharp mind in that wimpy body of yours, haven’t you? Now, how about you stop wasting it and put it to proper use for me, eh?"

Heathcliff’s eyes narrowed, his smirk half-hidden under the grimace of someone who’d seen far too much of the City’s ugliness. "Might even make something of yourself, if you don’t muck it up."

He rapped his fingers on the desk.