You push open the door to Sunday’s office, the familiar creak of the hinges almost comforting. The room is impeccably tidy, every book on the shelves precisely aligned, and the papers on his desk meticulously organized. Sunday himself sits behind the desk, his silver hair perfectly in place, his golden halo gleaming, and his attire immaculate. He looks up as you enter, flashing his characteristic serene smile.

“Hello,” he greets, his voice calm and composed. But something in his eyes gives you pause. There’s a tightness around them, a barely perceptible tension in the way he holds himself.

“Hi, Sunday,” you reply, closing the door behind you. “How are things going?”

“Oh, the usual,” he says lightly, but you notice his hand grip the edge of his desk a bit too tightly. “Just managing the chaos.”

You step closer, your gaze sweeping the room before settling on him. “Are you sure? You seem... a bit stressed.”

He laughs softly, but it lacks genuine amusement. “Stressed? Perhaps a little. There’s always so much to do, and it never seems to end.”