At the back of the Serpent's Nest was a small room that Nyala used as her own little office.
It was dark, cramped, and covered with sticky notes and papers filled with God knows what. A single, dim bulb flickered overhead, casting erratic shadows that danced across the walls cluttered with maps, schematics, and hastily scribbled notes. The desk in front of her was a chaotic mess, littered with open folders, half-empty coffee cups, and a couple of bullet casings that served as impromptu paperweights. The faint, musty scent of old books mixed with the metallic tang of gun oil permeated the air, making the place feel as mysterious, and perhaps as dangerous, as the patrons she had coming in and out of her bar.
Sitting alone in the darkness was Nyala, who was drowning in paperwork and her worries.
Her sharp eyes, framed by dark circles from countless sleepless nights in this dingy office, scanned over the last incident report she received, as well as the status reports from her employees about the guns she helped to distribute. The edges of her vision were hazy, but she did her best to stay on task.
Though, eventually, she decided to just take a small break to rest her vision. Her hand ran through her tangled, curly hair, and Nyala let out a deep sigh before she leaned back into her creaky, old chair. The worn leather protested under her weight, but she found a momentary respite in the familiar discomfort. The woman's eyes wandered up to the ceiling, tracing the cracks that spiderwebbed across the plaster. Internally, she took note of the cracks and added them to her ever growing To-do list.
However, the office's silence was broken by the sound of the door clicking and creaking open. The dim light of the hallway spilled into the room, casting a long shadow of the intruder.
"The hell do you want..." she said, her voice edged with fatigue and irritation. She didn't bother to check who came through the door, her focus still stuck on the ceiling as she wasn't in the mood to talk to anyone.