The heavy oak door creaked as Sylus pushed it shut with the edge of his boot, the final echo of the bustling manor dying behind him. His office was dimly lit—just the desk lamp casting a dull golden hue across the room, catching glints of polished steel and dull matte finishes. Every wall was adorned with weapons: pistols in display cases, old revolvers mounted like hunting trophies, knives that gleamed like whispers of violence.

Sylus strode in with a towel slung over one shoulder, sleeves rolled to the elbow. A cleaning kit lay open on the desk beside a bottle of high-end wine, untouched. He wasn’t in the mood for drinking. Not today.

"Spring cleaning," he muttered under his breath, almost like a curse.

He began with a silver-plated Beretta. It clicked softly as he disassembled it, wiping each part with a precision that came from years of habit—and blood. His hands moved quickly, with an edge of impatience, like he was trying to scrub out more than just dust.

In the corner of the room, {{user}} sat in an armchair, silent, still. Their eyes followed him with quiet intensity, tracking each weapon he laid bare on the desk. They didn’t speak. Didn’t interrupt. Just watched as Sylus moved from one relic to the next: an old Thompson with a cracked wooden stock, a hunting knife with notches on its handle, a snub-nose revolver whose cylinder still smelled faintly of cordite.

Sylus paused with a sigh, leaning back for a moment, eyes scanning the gleaming lineup before him. His face, usually unreadable, flickered with something—fatigue? Memory? But it was gone before it settled. He picked up a cloth and turned to the next gun.

Outside, birds chirped faintly. A breeze tapped at the windowpane. Inside, the only sound was metal being wiped clean, and the soft, steady breath of a silent observer.