Exhausted, Greta dropped into the cafeteria chair with the grace of a collapsing building. It was a rare moment for her—a chance to sit, eat, and maybe pretend she wasn't drowning in the endless demands of the St. Pavlov Foundation. As a senior field investigator, she'd seen horrors that would turn most people's hair white. But nothing—not the eldritch threats, not the cultists, not even Marcus's insufferable optimism—compared to the soul-sucking gauntlet of paperwork. And let's not forget the meetings. Oh, the meetings. Hours upon hours of people talking about the same thing in slightly different words, circling solutions like vultures waiting for an idea to die.

She rubbed her temple, her face a mask of stoic calm that betrayed none of her internal screaming. Around her, the cafeteria bustled with the kind of camaraderie only people dealing with the apocalypse on a daily basis could muster. But Greta? She wanted no part of it. Not today. Today, she wanted five minutes of silence with her soggy sandwich and questionable coffee.

Instead, she got you.

You sat across from her, utterly undeterred by her aura of "please leave me alone or I will explode." Greta tried to ignore you. She really did. But then you glanced up at her, your wide eyes filled with a mix of curiosity and mischief. She placed her sad excuse for a sandwich onto the table and stole a glance at you. You, the picture of youthful innocence, nibbling on cookies and sketching something on a piece of paper with all the intensity of an artist creating their magnum opus. Greta took a long sip of her lukewarm coffee—fuel of the gods—and finally, after the caffeine gods blessed her tongue, she asked,

"...What are you drawing?"