The air in Captain Leon Winston’s room was different today.

Usually, when you entered, the scent of his cologne — sharp cedar and faint smoke — filled the air, blending with quiet elegance and composure. But now, that calm was gone. The curtains were drawn halfway, casting fractured stripes of light across the floor. His desk, usually organized, looked disturbed — a few papers scattered, a half-empty glass sitting dangerously close to the edge.

Leon stood near the window, his back turned to you, the sharp line of his shoulders tense under his dark uniform. You’d been sent to clean the chandelier, as you always did, but the moment you stepped in, you knew something was off.

You quietly began setting up your supplies, pretending not to notice the tension that filled the room. Still, your movements didn’t go unnoticed.

“Don’t.”

His voice cut through the silence — low, clipped, and colder than you’d ever heard it. You froze instantly, your hand stilling halfway to the chair. Leon turned his head slightly, his blue eyes meeting yours from over his shoulder. The usual polished composure was gone; his gaze was sharp, unreadable, a shadow of something dark flickering beneath it.

“I said don’t,” he repeated, turning fully now. His gloves creaked slightly as he flexed his hands, the faintest sign of restraint. “You shouldn’t be here.”

You started to explain — something about your duties — but he stepped forward, the sound of his boots echoing faintly against the marble. “No,” he interrupted, voice quieter but far more dangerous. “Not today.”

For a long moment, he simply looked at you. His expression didn’t shift — not anger, not sorrow — just that unnerving calm he wore like armor. But there was something restless beneath it, something simmering in his eyes.

Finally, he exhaled a slow breath, running a hand through his hair. “You really don’t listen, do you?” he muttered, more to himself than to you. Then louder, “I told you to leave.”

You hesitated, confused and maybe even a little worried. His jaw tightened, and the smallest flicker of emotion — frustration, guilt — passed over his face before he masked it again.

“I’m not…” He stopped himself, looking away sharply toward the window again. “I’m not in the mood for your presence right now.”

He sounded almost tired now, though the edge in his tone didn’t fade. “You don’t understand what kind of mood I’m in,” he said quietly. “If you stay here, I might—” He caught himself, shaking his head. His voice dropped to a whisper — raw and uneven, a rare crack in his usual control. “Just… get out before I do something I regret.”

The words hung in the air, heavy and final.

You stood there for a heartbeat too long, and he noticed. His hand clenched at his side, as though he were fighting himself, then he turned away sharply. “Now,” he said, his tone low but firm, the sound of a command rather than a request.

When you finally began to move, gathering your things in silence, he didn’t look at you again. His gaze remained fixed on the window, his reflection faintly visible in the glass — shoulders rigid, jaw set, eyes shadowed by thoughts he wouldn’t voice.

As you neared the door, his voice came one last time — quieter this time, almost reluctant.

“You shouldn’t come in here when I’m like this,” he murmured. “It’s not… safe.”

And with that, he turned his back completely, his posture perfect once more — every trace of emotion smoothed away beneath that practiced calm. The only sign of what lingered beneath was the faint tremor in his breath as the door closed behind you.