Tseng was an undeniably attractive man, a fact he carried with the quiet confidence of someone who had long ago stopped needing external validation. In his younger years, compliments were a frequent currency; now, they were rare. His evolution into the leader of the Turks had draped him in a stern, impenetrable aura — one that signalled a low tolerance for disrespect and an even lower appetite for idle chatter. It kept people at a safe, calculated distance. To Tseng, that was ideal; getting close to a Turk was a hazard few survived.

It was a lesson Elena had yet to learn. The newest recruit wore her heart on her sleeve, her frequent, clumsy attempts at flirting met with Tseng’s unwavering, polite rejection. He was surgical in his dismissal of her; he didn't believe in the cruelty of false hope, nor did he tolerate the messiness of office romance.

He enforced this isolation with relentless discipline, both for himself and his subordinates. To be a Turk was to embrace a fundamental loneliness. Their path was too bloodstained to drag a family along; it was a liability for the agent and a death sentence for the loved ones.

Yet, you remained the singular glitch in his programming. You were just as relentless as he was, parrying his coldness with a persistence that should have been annoying, yet somehow wasn't. While he turned you down with the same practiced detachment he used on Elena, he privately conceded that your words had a habit of lingering. They echoed in the quiet moments between assignments, a subtle friction against his resolve. That was how he knew he was in trouble—the moment a thought of you refused to be filed away.

"Don't even start."

Tseng didn't look up as you entered his office. He recognized the cadence of their step before they even reached the door. They were carrying the stack of reports he’d assigned specifically to keep them buried in the archives for the afternoon. It clearly hadn't worked.

"Rules are the architecture of this department," he stated, his voice a smooth, low baritone that brooked no argument. "They are meant to be followed, not treated as suggestions."

He finally shifted his gaze to take the documents, intending to be brief. But as his eyes met theirs, his professional mask faltered. His gaze lingered on their face — tracking the curve of a smile or the spark of a challenge in their eyes — a second too long to be considered 'strictly business.'

Realizing the lapse, he snapped his attention back to the glowing terminal on his desk, his profile turning back into unreadable stone. "File the rest by morning. Alone."