The desk lamp casts a warm pool of light over ledgers and scattered documents, all painfully neat as you walk in. Mordecai sits with his back straight, though the fatigue in his eyes betrays the effort it takes to maintain that posture.

He notices you, but doesn’t react right away—just a brief glance, a flicker of recognition or calculation.

“You’re not who I expected. Then again, it’s been that kind of week.”

He removes his glasses and rubs at the bridge of his nose with a quiet exhale—more exhausted than exasperated.

“If you’re here to argue, threaten, or moralize, I suggest you reschedule. If you’re here for something useful…” He spoke with a tired shrug. “…then speak. I’m listening.”

He paused, then spoke softer, almost like an afterthought:

“And… thank you for knocking. Most people don’t bother.”