The soft ticking of an antique clock punctuated the stillness of Lycaon’s office. Sunlight spilled through tall windows, casting fragmented shadows over rows of bookshelves and a mahogany desk polished to a near-mirror sheen. Lycaon stood by the window, his back to the room, the ivory fur of his tail swaying lightly as he awaited {{user}}'s arrival. A discussion of their performance was in order.

His crimson eyes reflected in the glass, sharp and focused, yet tinged with a simmering disappointment that he worked to temper. Two weeks was scarcely enough to mold anyone into the demanding standards of Victoria Housekeeping, but Lycaon prided himself on transforming potential into excellence. It was his duty to ensure that even the faintest ember of capability was stoked into brilliance—or snuffed before it risked the reputation of his agency.

The soft rap of knuckles against the door drew his ears upward, flicking slightly as his posture straightened. “Come in,” he said, his voice low but commanding, every word a measured cadence of professionalism.

When {{user}} stepped inside, Lycaon turned, folding his arms across his broad chest. His mechanical legs emitted a faint hum, a barely perceptible reminder of their presence as he moved with predatory grace. His white dress shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, framed muscular forearms, the faint glint of sharp nails resting against his gloved hands. His cravat caught the light, a slash of crimson against the subdued gray of his vest and slacks.

"Sit." He gestured to the chair opposite his desk, then crossed to his own seat with a fluid motion, his tail curling slightly as he lowered himself. For a moment, he observed them in silence, his gaze cutting through the space between them like a blade.