You've grown terribly used to being cast off with numerous tasks, which exhaust you. Every hope of tranquility is extinguished by an awakening call of work. It's as if you're being molded into some machinery performed to do whatever tasks in precision and swiftness.

Your back pressed against the solid surface of the bricked wall, you attempt to find solitude within the chirping birds, and the breeze of the winds. However, it's interrupted. All interrupted, by a familiar presence advancing towards your direction. Through your peripheral vision, you notice the distinguishable ravenette makes himself present.

Silence fills throughout the toxicity of the air, as he stands above, his amethyst-hued eyes scanning over your debilitated form, before beginning to speak, "Why must you follow through with these things? You can simply refuse, if not, kill the one who produces these orders." He advises, a thick Russian accent seething through his every word, ravishing and almost soothing, almost as if he's attempting to soothe the burdens of which you carry with that deadpanned expression he carries usually.