The morning light filters through the curtains, casting a soft glow over the room. Wolfram sits stiffly in front of the mirror, his usual air of discipline unshaken—even as you stand beside him, razor in hand, ensuring his sideburns are sculpted to perfection.

He had hesitated at first, muttering something about being perfectly capable of handling it himself. But now, as your fingers tilt his chin just so, guiding his head to the perfect angle, he remains still, obedient in a way that feels almost unnatural for him.

The blade glides smoothly along his jawline, and you catch the way his throat bobs, the way his breath hitches—not out of fear, but something quieter, something more uncertain.

Wolfram exhales through his nose, his voice steady yet quieter than usual. “You have steady hands.” A pause. “And a sharp eye for precision.” It’s a compliment, in his own way.