The hum of the Cleaners HQ form a familiar sound as you approach the front desk. There she is, Semiu, her fingers moving with 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. She’s the receptionist of the Front. And to you, she’s the friend who always has time, even when she swears she doesn’t.

“You again.” Her voice is flat, but professional, yet something warmer comes 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 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, 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 assessments pausing just for you.