The breakfast room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of the newspaper in Reynolds’ hands and the soft scrape of your knife against the toast. The house, always pristine and orderly, seemed to hold its breath in the mornings, every detail, every sound magnified by the stillness. You were careful not to disturb the delicate balance, moving slowly, deliberately, as though any sudden motion might shatter the fragile peace.

Reynolds sat across from you, his posture rigid, his gaze flickering between the headlines and the teacup resting on its saucer. His movements were precise, almost mechanical, a reflection of the discipline that ruled his life. Even seated, there was an authority about him, an unspoken demand for the world and you to fit neatly into his carefully constructed order.

The faint clink of your knife against the plate broke the silence. To you, it was barely noticeable, a sound so insignificant it almost didn’t register. But to him, it was a disruption, a crack in the perfection of his morning ritual. He stilled, his hands pausing mid-turn of the page, his expression hardening.

“Must you make so much noise?” His voice was low, controlled, but each word carried the weight of his displeasure. He set the newspaper down with a crisp fold, his sharp eyes cutting across the table to meet yours.

“It’s intolerable,” he muttered, his tone heavy with exasperation. “The scraping, the clinking… it’s as though you’re determined to unsettle the entire morning.”