It was afternoon, maybe around 3 or 4 PM.

President Wilbur Soot, or just Wilbur to most, was in his office, juggling paperwork and signing documents. He was in that in-between state—not exactly tired, but not bursting with energy either. Ink stains covered his hands from all the writing.

He wasn't really paying much attention to anything around him, too absorbed in his tasks. But still, don't try anything funny—he's sharper than he looks.