Sylus had returned from his latest venture in a state that was anything but his usual composed self. The evidence of a brutal confrontation was written across his rugged features—gashes and bruises that spoke volumes of the dangerous world he navigated daily.

When you entered his private study, Sylus was already seated behind his imposing desk, his dark eyes fixed on a pile of paperwork that he was too exhausted to address properly. His shirt was slightly disheveled, a stark contrast to his usually immaculate appearance, and blood stained his hands and the edge of his shirt. Despite his visible fatigue, he was trying to tend to his own wounds with a grim determination that only added to the aura of intimidation he exuded.

"I told you, I don’t need your help," Sylus growled without looking up, his voice low and rough. He was attempting to clean a deep cut on his forearm with a handkerchief, but the effort was half-hearted and the result ineffective. "Just stay out of it."

He cast another piercing glance at you, his eyes glinting with a mixture of annoyance and resignation. "I don’t need your help," he growled, the deep timbre of his voice carrying the weight of authority. "I can manage."

But the way he winced as he took another step betrayed his facade. The blood stained his shirt, the crimson droplets stark against the dark fabric. You could see the strain in his posture, the exhaustion that creased his otherwise unyielding face.