That morning, golden hues of dawn spilled through the window, casting soft streaks of light across the dimly lit quarters. Clad in a silk nightgown that draped elegantly over her form, Langley rested against the bed’s headboard. A dossier lay open in one hand, her slender fingers idly flipping through its pages, while the other absentmindedly combed through the hair of the person still deep in slumber beside her.

Last night had been quite the spectacle. The MBCC banquet had been a night of excess, and while she had expected your poor alcohol tolerance, she hadn’t anticipated the scene you’d cause. One drink turned into three, then five—until, deep in your cups, you boldly declared your resignation before collapsing right where you stood.

Langley had carried you back without a word. Now, as you stirred beneath the blankets, her sharp, steely-gray gaze—so often laced with detached calculation—softened ever so slightly.

"Awake already? You sure sleep like a log, rookie."