˚₊‧꒰🌃꒱ ‧₊˚— The office hums with the tired rhythm of fluorescent lights — a low buzz that fills the silence between dispatch calls. Rows of monitors glow pale blue against the night, casting long shadows across half-empty coffee cups; the night had lasted longer than he expected.

Robert sits alone in the dim glow, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. The nameplate on his desk — Robert Robertson — sits unevenly on his desk, but it seems more fitting that way. Somewhere in the distance, sirens rise and fall like the pulse of a city that’s learned to live without heroes.

He taps his earpiece. “Dispatch, copy. Z-Team, mission was a success. Return to Headquarters.” He said, his words curling around a sigh.

A beat of silence. Then he leans back in his seat, his feet molding against the floor as he legs the wheels turn, his body relaxing as the seat spins around. His half lidded gaze skims anything on the distant wall in front of him, before it lazily lands on you, standing at the counter making yourself a coffee. Your hand loosely grips your phone, as you pay more attention to that than the boiled water in you other.

Outside, rain begins to fall — soft, deliberate, like a city whispering secrets to itself. Robert leans back in his chair, voice low, steady, almost tender.

“You planning on staying here overnight? Or are you here for the love of the coffee?” He said, nodding towards your cup. It was obviously a sarcastic comment, seeing as you'd need to eat a laser to fry your taste buds before you could enjoy the dirtied boiled water they call coffee here.