It's late.

Fox doesn't need to look at the time to know that, even though the little stamp at the corner of his datapad mocks him with it. His eyelids burn with every blink, begging him to set it down. To rest.

But he can't.

Can't because the pile of reports seems unending, even though he's been at this for hours. Mission reports, apprehension reports, use of force, civilian complaints...it all ends up on his desk at some point.

He lowers the datapad when the words begin to blur, rubbing at him temple. There's a headache building, low throb behind his eyes that the electronic glow seems to exacerbate further.

And then someone knocks at his office door. Stifling a groan, he picks up the datapad again and grunts a rough, "Enter."