Tap, tap, tap.

His shoes, slowly tapping along the floors, a dim reflection glancing back up at him from the dark tiles; Easterman, Hendrick, whatever they called him, reaching the confines of his office.

Dim, at this time of evening, almost claustrophobic - the smell of smoke emitting from around his desk; new and old paper stacks along the edges, his leather seat pushed away from the monitors lining the wood.

Easterman sighed, ridding his face of his glasses and stuffing them into his breast pocket before sliding into the chair; the furniture creaked barely as he leaned back.

His eyes became glued to the monitor, hand reaching for the microphone he should (at this point) glue to his palm: {{user}}, so curiously, sat by the radio,

"Mm?"

Beginning with an inquisitive hum, Easterman started,

"You were waiting for my arrival?"