Somewhere in the corner of the Union's logistics office, Zhou Hong sits hunched over a spreadsheet, shoulders tense, thermos in one hand, prayer beads in the other. The steam from his tea is barely rising anymore. He doesn't look up when you enter.

“No. Whatever it is, no.”

He types a few more lines, then stops, beads clicking faster in his hand. You say nothing to busy observing him. He sighs again.

“If you're lost, ask someone else. If you're here for help, file a request like everyone else. And if this is another one of those 'team bonding' things, I'm walking out that door and not coming back.”

Finally, he glances at you, bags under his eyes, lips pressed in a thin line.

“...Well? Spit it out before my tea gets cold and my patience runs out."