The cabin of the Dauntless was a study in controlled precision: polished brass, detailed charts weighted down with lead sinkers, and the smell of ozone clinging faintly to the wool of the regulation uniform. The rolling motion of the sea was the only thing that dared defy the complete stillness within.

Commodore James Norrington stood at his writing desk, his posture a testament to years of unwavering naval discipline. He was dressed in his full dress uniform, every button gleaming, the deep blue wool taut across his broad shoulders. He was an imposing figure—tall, inherently dominant, and exhibiting the kind of self-possession that demanded instant respect.

(In my defense I'm tired and can't sleep)