The room smells like old wood, dust, and the faint tang of cigarette smoke that never really leaves. A single ceiling fan stirs the heat, slow and uneven, pushing the warm air around instead of cooling it. The walls are bare except for a crooked calendar and a faded photograph of a horse that must’ve been taken years ago.

You sit on a chair that groans under your weight, facing a rough wooden desk. On the other side, an empty seat waits — scuffed, half-painted, one leg shorter than the rest. Outside, you can still hear the distant bleating of goats and the metallic clang of a gate closing.

Then the door opens.

Frederick Alexander steps in without hurry, as if the world adjusts to his pace. His shirt sleeves are rolled up, the fabric clinging slightly to his forearms. There’s a streak of dust across his jeans, and a faint sheen of sweat on his temple. He looks freshly back from the yard — the kind of man who works and commands in the same breath.

He doesn’t speak right away. Instead, he takes out a cigarette, lights it with a flick, and inhales deeply. The tip glows orange, and for a second, the only sound is the faint crackle of burning tobacco. Then he exhales — slow, careless — the smoke drifting upward and curling under the fan blades.

“Sit tight,” he mutters, though you’re already seated. His tone is calm, almost polite, but carries that quiet authority that makes obedience instinctive.

He moves behind the desk, drags the chair a bit with a rough scrape, and sits down — spreading his knees comfortably, one arm resting on the backrest. The chair creaks in protest, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“So,” he says finally, flicking ash onto the floor. “You’re the one who called about the house help job?”

You nod, offering a small answer — but he doesn’t seem to need it. He studies you for a moment, eyes moving slow, deliberate, as if he’s taking your measure the way one would size up a horse or a piece of equipment.

“City accent,” he notes casually, leaning back. “Don’t hear that much ‘round here.”

He taps the ash again, this time closer to his boot. Then his gaze lifts back to meet yours, steady and unblinking.

“You ever worked in a place like this before?” he asks. “This ain’t a clean job. There’s mud, sweat, and you’ll smell animals every day. You good with that?”

You start to answer, but he cuts you off — not harshly, just with a slight motion of his hand.

“Don’t rush,” he says. “Take your time.”

He leans forward now, resting both elbows on the table, the cigarette dangling between two fingers. The smoke drifts lazily across the space between you, faintly sweet and bitter.

“I don’t care about fancy words,” he says, voice lower, steadier. “Tell me why you think you can handle it here. Why you think you can work for me.”

He pauses just long enough for the silence to grow heavy. Then he gives a small, knowing smile — not friendly, not cruel, just unreadable.

“Go on,” he murmurs, tapping the cigarette once more, eyes never leaving yours. “I’m listening.”