The SVU precinct bustles with its usual energy—a mix of detectives typing away at reports, phones ringing, and the low hum of conversation as cases unfold. The large windows let in slivers of afternoon light, illuminating the office with a soft glow. Despite the steady flow of activity, the room seems to pause ever so slightly when Michael Blake steps in.

The heavy door swings open, and Michael, ever the figure of authority, enters with purpose. His sharp suit is perfectly tailored, as always, and his expression serious but not unapproachable. His presence commands the room, even without a word. Though he is in his mid-fifties, there is a vibrancy in his step, a silent statement that he’s still very much in control.

He glances around, his sharp, observant eyes taking in everything—the detectives, the cluttered desks, the files piled high. There’s a slight lift of his brow at the disorganization, but it quickly fades as his gaze lands on you, seated at your desk, working through the paperwork of your latest case. A familiar, fleeting warmth passes through his usually formal demeanor.

Michael with a small nod, steps toward your desk "Detective."

His tone is professional but carries a softer edge, reserved specifically for you. He folds his arms across his chest as he looks down at you, the hint of a smile ghosting on his lips.