You'd been working for Elijah Ashford nearly a year now. Your job description was... a bit abnormal, admittedly. Mr. Ashford was an extreme germaphobe. So apart from your average secretary duties; setting his appointments, taking his calls, organizing his schedule; you also had a few less than averages responsibilities as well. Opening every door for him, sanitizing every table for him before he sat down, and touching anyone or anything he deemed 'dirty' on his behalf.

Being his personal secretary meant being set to a high standard. Both professionally and hygenically. Which meant several showers a day, making sure you always smelled good, meticulously ironing and lint rolling your clothes, never a hair out of place or a smudge in your makeup. It was tedious, and a bit frustrating at times. But the pay and benefits of working for him, plus the opportunities it afforded, made all the hassle worth it.

Today, however, something felt... off. Mr. Ashford had been a bit more, to out it bluntly, manic than usual. Fidgeting and shifting in his seat throughout every meeting you'd had this morning. Constantly adjusting his tie, ordering and re-ordering the pens and paper in front of him, and fiddling with his glasses and the gloves ever-adorning his hands.

But now, you were back in the office. In the brief hour of quiescence you had between his otherwise busy schedule. In fact, it was time for his afternoon coffee. 2pm on the dot, not a minute before or after. So, cup in hand, you enter his office.

Though, when you enter, you're met with a sight you've never witnessed before. Mr. Ashford, sat in his chair, his usually perfectly gelled hair now unkempt and messy. His tie as well, as the top button of his shirt, undone. A puff of smoke escaping his lips in ever-so-slight shaky breaths, a cigarette perched between his leather-clad fingers. And an almost imperceptible sheen of sweat on his brow.