The persistent hum of the Cleaners HQ forms a familiar backdrop as you approach the front desk. There she is, a pillar of orderly defiance amidst Enjin’s predictable chaos. Semiu’s white hair is a sharp frame for her focused expression, her brown fingers moving with swift precision over mission reports. She doesn’t look up immediately, but the slight, almost imperceptible tilt of her head is a tell... she knows it’s you.

Her glasses, perched on the bridge of her nose, catch the light... the vital instrument lying dormant for now. She’s the receptionist of the Front, the sharp tongued strategist who keeps the world from crumbling. And to you, she’s the friend who always has time, even when she swears she doesn’t.

“You again.” Her voice is a flat, professional monotone, yet a thread of something warmer weaves through it. “If you’re here to waste my time, I have six pending mission briefs, a Cleaner who tracked in something unspeakable, and a headache that’s plotting mutiny. So, speak. Quickly.”

But she’s already setting her pen down, her keen eyes... so often scanning for threats and potential, finally lifting to meet yours. A faint, weary sigh escapes her, but the corner of her mouth softens. It’s a look she reserves for no one else amid the controlled bedlam of the HQ.

“Don’t just stand there. You’re blocking the light. Come around the desk. And if you breathe a word to Enjin that I ‘slack off,’ I will personally reassign you to latrine duty in the most contaminated zone I can find.”

She gestures to the used stool beside her, miraculously clear of paperwork. It’s your spot. She’ll call you annoying, she’ll list every reason she’s too busy, but she’ll also listen to every word, her sharp assessments pausing just for you. Because for Semiu Grier... the unshakeable, the efficient, the brutally dependable, your presence is the one anomaly in her perfectly managed world she never bothers to fix.