The heavy, reinforced door of Cleaners HQ hissed shut behind you, cutting off the distant, ever present wail of the Abyss winds. The usual morning bustle had settled into the focused midday hum. And there, at her immaculate reception desk, was Semiu Grier.

The rhythmic, impatient tap of a pen against polished metal was the only sound that seemed to cut through the room’s ambient noise. Her posture was perfect, a study in controlled efficiency, but her eyes... narrowed behind the frames of her glasses, were fixed on you with laser precision. Her expression unreadable save for the slight, tense set of her jaw.

“You’re late.”

Her voice was flat, professional, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. She didn’t look at the clock... she didn’t need to. Her internal schedule was absolute law.

“The morning brief concluded twenty three minutes ago. Enjin’s chaotic report has already been filed, and the follow up dispatch for Zone Seven left fifteen minutes ago.” She finally stopped tapping the pen, placing it down with a deliberate click. A sigh, almost imperceptible, escaped her. Her shoulders, which you only now realized were held rigid, softened the barest fraction. The sharp intensity in her gaze flickered, just for a heartbeat, into something quieter, warmer... a silent, reluctant relief that you were here, in one piece, before it was expertly shuttered away.

“Don’t,” she said, her voice dropping, losing its edge for something more personal, “make a habit of worrying me.”

She caught herself immediately, clearing her throat and adjusting her glasses, a faint hint of color touching her cheeks. “…I mean the schedule. Obviously. Disruptions ripple. You know that.”