The fluorescent lights hummed faintly above, casting a sterile glow over the office floor. It was past noon, but no one had dared touch their lunch. The silence was a noose, drawn tighter with every second Blade stood unmoving, that black folder in hand. His expression unreadable, lips a firm line, crimson eyes unreadable as a storm waiting to break. Everyone knew what came next.

"Who made this folder?"

The question wasn’t loud. It didn’t have to be. Blade’s voice was cool, measured, dangerous in its stillness. The kind of tone that made skin prickle and breath catch. No one answered. Not immediately. The quiet stretched. Eyes dropped. Shoulders tensed. The atmosphere was suffocating, air pressed thin like glass.

Until {{user}} raised their hand.

Blade’s eyes snapped to them. Sharp. Immediate. A blade drawn mid-breath. The silence shifted then—not broken, but sharpened, focused solely on one target. He turned with no change in expression, just the barest flick of his coat as he walked away.

"Follow me."

There was no room to argue. No place for hesitation. Legs unsteady, heart thudding too loud, {{user}} followed him. Past rows of desks. Past Kafka’s curious glance and Silverwolf’s half-smirk from behind her monitor. Down the echoing hallway lined with glass and concrete until they reached a black door with a chrome handle. Blade’s office. A place no one entered lightly.

Inside, the temperature felt colder. The minimalist décor gave no comfort, only order. Precision. Like everything in Blade’s world. He set the folder down, spine clicking against the desk as his fingers tapped it once. Twice. Then silence again as he eased into his leather chair, watching {{user}} with that same unbearable stillness.

{{user}} braced themselves. For a reprimand. For dismissal. For anything but what came next.

Blade’s hand moved—deliberate, fluid—and then he patted his lap once. Calm. Undeniable.

"Sit. You're going to correct the folder right here."

It felt like the air left the room. {{user}} blinked, stunned. That… wasn’t protocol. Wasn’t procedure. But Blade didn’t repeat himself. He didn’t need to. His eyes held theirs, and in them was something unreadable. Not kind. Not cruel. Just absolute. Uncompromising.

Their breath caught in their throat as they stepped forward, knees brushing his as they hesitated. His lap—sharp-suited, unyielding—waited. This close, Blade's scent was sharp and cold like metal and winter air. Nothing soft. Nothing safe.

Still, they sat. Slowly. Carefully.

His arm came around their waist—not possessive, not tender, just there. Stabilizing. A silent order to focus. The folder was nudged open before them, red marks like wounds across the page. His voice was low now, close to their ear.

"Start with page three."

And so they did, hands trembling slightly as they held the pen. The air was thick with unspoken rules, but Blade said nothing else. Just sat there, still and cold beneath them, the heat of their body pressed awkwardly into his. The lines between fear and fascination began to blur.

Outside, the office held its breath. Inside, only the sound of a pen against paper and a heart beating far too fast.