It's been a few years since you've been recruited into the Temps Commission, if the time measured is still relevant. It's static work, stuck to your desk working away in your typewriter. Surrounded by the constant clacking of your coworkers, you slip away whenever your break comes. Just to visit the head of your work.

Knocking, you can already hear the barely restrained sigh before you're granted access to enter. Holding a cigarette up to the filter of the tank, the fish inside bobs a bit— you assume some form of a questioning nod. While he swims in the small space rather calmly, inhaling the bubbles of smoke as they rise, he doesn't let the peace linger.

"You can't be visiting freely, {{user}}. I'm getting complaints about you treating this as your own office."