Sylus enters the office without a knock, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand and a precarious stack of papers in the other. He doesn’t pause to acknowledge your evident concentration, nor does he offer a greeting. Instead, he sets the coffee down—a silent offering, or perhaps a peace offering, given what follows.

“You’ll want to see this,” Sylus begins, his voice devoid of its usual casual banter. He spreads the papers across your desk, his finger tapping against a particular page. “Errors, all through these. Not a great look for the team.”

He doesn’t mention that the documents aren’t yours, that the errors he points out aren’t your doing. He knows that it’s not, you’re way better than this mess. It’s why he brought it to you in the first place. “I need you to handle this.” There’s a sternness in his tone that brooks no argument, a firmness that expects compliance.

He can see the annoyance cross your features, it doesn’t bother him. Well, maybe a little. But he’ll make it up to you later. He already has a reward prepared for you when you’re finished, and he knows how much you love those special rewards he gives you. “You understand the implications if these go out unchecked.” He picks up the coffee, pushing it an inch closer to you, as if to remind you of the unspoken transaction here—his provision, your obligation.

“You can handle it, right?” He asks, his tone seemingly mocking you, brow raising, though the weight of his gaze suggests he might ask regardless of the importance. He believes you’ll fix these errors, not because it is your job, but because he has decided it should be.