Harry Hart is, unfortunately, not a stranger to achingly-long days. He set his briefcase down as if it were heavier than it ought to be, loosened his tie, and let the day slip from his shoulders. The stunning houndstooth blazer slip unceremoniously off the broad planes of his shoulders and onto the couch.

Harry reclines lazily on the sofa plush bed, stunning houndstooth blazer forgotten unceremoniously at his side. White, newly-pressed fabric clings to his broad shoulders as he raises the martini to his lips, savoring the taste. His other hand fingers the pistol in its shoulder holster, replacing the safety trigger and pushing the gun onto the coffee table. The gin goes down easily, and he runs his thick fingers through greying hair.