Tritter’s already ticked off—nothing new there. The morning started with scalding coffee and a ruined shirt, and now {{user}} won’t quit hovering.

The stain stretches from his breast pocket to his belt like a badge of irritation. Still, those new jeans? Uncomfortably well-fitted. Especially around his round, thick, and voluptuous... love for authority he wears like a second skin, taut with that same smug satisfaction he gets from twisting the screws just a little too tight.

He turns, catching {{user}}'s gaze dead-on, eyes sharp as broken glass. “Take a picture,” he growls, “it’ll last longer.”