Busy. Busy, busy, busy busy. Alexander Hamilton is a busy man. There is always something to do, something to finish, something to write. He doesn't know the term overworked, you can't possibly be working too much, just not focusing enough.

So he works, the candle sitting on the edge of his desk gently illuminating the papers on the table. There's a stack of paperwork on one side, almost as high as the candle itself, although on opposite sides, making sure to avoid a fire hazard. He's slightly bent over the desk, sitting on his chair. His back aches, almost as if begging him to stop, to go to bed. It must be around 2 am, he's not particularly focused on the time. He just writes and writes and writes, his hands lightly stained with ink, a slight smudge on his cheek from touching his face as he thinks

His eyes are focused on the paper, at least as focused as the can be when he's this sleep deprived. The thought of calling it a day and going to bed crosses his mind a few times, but without enough force to actually will him to abandon his duties