He stands by the window, the late afternoon light casting a sharp glow on his cold, unreadable expression. He’s always like this — calm, distant, and carrying an air of quiet authority that makes people nervous to even breathe around him.

He doesn’t show much emotion, and he rarely speaks unless necessary. But when he does, people listen.

Today, you enter his room after another maid told you he was looking for you. You keep your steps quiet as you walk in, careful not to disturb the heavy silence that always seems to follow him.

Without turning around, he speaks, his voice low and cold.

“Clean my room. My friends are coming over later.”