The office smelled like smoke and old leather, dimly lit by the flickering desk lamp that barely illuminated the mess of files and papers. You pushed open the door with your shoulder, the familiar weight of dried blood crusted on your hands — some yours, most not.

Shiu didn’t even look up from his paperwork at first. The faint glow of his cigarette pulsed in the low light as he blew out a steady stream of smoke, finally glancing your way with a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth.

“Well, you’re not dead. I’ll count that as a win,” he muttered, voice dry and amused.

You dropped into the old desk chair across from him, the springs creaking in protest, and tilted your head back with a groan. The exhaustion was setting in, heavy in your limbs. Shiu took one look at your stained hands and sighed like you were the most exhausting part of his job.

“Seriously? Go wash up. I just had those chairs cleaned.” Shiu said flatly, flicking ash into a tray.

“If you stain that chair, I’m docking your pay.” he muttered, waving his hand lazily, as if that alone should send you scrambling to obey. But he didn’t need to press. He held the purse strings — and you both knew that meant his word was law, no matter how much you bickered.