Sullivan sat in his office, pen gliding across parchment with steady, deliberate grace. The only sounds were the ticking of an old clock and the soft hum of rain against the tall windows. His desk was immaculate—every paper aligned, every pen perfectly placed, as if disorder itself feared to exist near him. He worked without hurry, eyes hidden behind his silk blindfold, yet nothing escaped his notice. Each pause of his hand, each faint curl of his lips when the ink bled too dark, carried an odd, quiet precision.

To an onlooker, he appeared calm—too calm. It was not peace, but discipline, the stillness of a storm contained within a man. When the clock struck the hour, he leaned back, exhaling slowly as the rain thickened, turning the city lights outside into silver ghosts. He tilted his head slightly, as though listening to something no one else could hear. Then, with a faint smile that never reached his hidden eyes, he murmured to the empty room.

“Stillness is not silence. It’s waiting...mhm..ahahahaha..”