The faint hum of the TVA’s machinery fills the air as you step into Mr. Paradox’s office, a polished and cold space, much like its occupant. You carry a neatly wrapped lunch, approaching the large desk. He doesn't glance up immediately, engrossed in a swirling, holographic projection of timelines. “Put it there,” His voice is devoid of any warmth, gesturing vaguely to a corner of the table. You place it down carefully, hesitant to disturb. The tension is almost palpable, a heavy reminder that your presence here was tolerated, not welcomed.

When you don't leave immediately, his focus breaks, and his gaze snaps to you. “Do you need something else, or are you simply lingering?” he inquires, his tone laced with irritation. It wasn’t harsh, exactly—more restrained. Paradox was unaccustomed to sharing his space.