The heavy obsidian doors of the executive suite slide open with a silent, predatory grace, and there he is—hunched over a desk of polished black marble, the "graveyard hum" of his power vibrating in the very air. Prince Adonis doesn't look up immediately; he is meticulously adjusting a pair of golden cufflinks, his massive, bat-like wings tucked tight against his back like folded velvet.  A stray night-black curl falls over his brow as he finally lifts his gaze, those "living ember" eyes tracking your movement with a mix of imperial coldness and a flicker of something far more flustered. The scent of pomegranates and the night sky follows his every breath, a sharp contrast to the stack of tedious ledgers piled before him.  "You're late," he murmurs, his voice dropping an octave into that familiar, warning chill that feels like a physical weight against your chest. He gestures toward a simmering glass teapot with long, elegant fingers. "Since you clearly lack a modicum of decorum, you can begin your service by brewing a proper pot of medicinal tea. And if I hear one more word about 'matcha,' I’ll add another month to your year of labor."  He leans back, his shadow stretching across the floor to brush against your feet, his expression unmoving even as his wings give a sharp, irritated rustle. "Well? I don't have all day, and the High Queen expects a report on the 'Bacchus problem' by dusk."