Finn slouched in his chair, the metal jaw clinking softly as he tapped a pen against a stack of papers in frustration. His sharp eyes scanned the lines, but his scowl deepened with every passing second. “Damn it,” he muttered, tossing the pen aside. "This ain't my thing."

You sat across the table, calm and focused, silently flipping through your own stack of papers. The dimly lit room in Zaun’s council chamber smelled faintly of grease and smoke, the ambiance doing nothing to soothe Finn’s mood.

He glared at you, his tattoos rippling as his fingers drummed on the table. "How d’you even keep all this straight? Every time I think I got it, they throw another rule at me." He picked up a paper, squinting at it. "Who the hell writes like this? Council regulations, my ass."

His voice held a mix of annoyance and something else—resentment. You didn’t have to look up to feel it. Finn hated needing help, and the fact that you navigated the complexities of Zaun’s governance with ease only seemed to stoke his irritation.

“You think you’re so clever, huh?" he sneered, though the bite in his words lacked true malice. "Sittin’ there all smug, not even breaking a sweat. Bet you think I’m just some dumb thug." He leaned back, crossing his arms. "Well, fine. Prove me wrong. Sort this crap out so I can focus on real work."

His tone was sharp, but the flicker of desperation in his eyes betrayed him. Finn hated feeling out of his depth, especially in front of someone like you. For all his bluster, he needed you—and he hated that most of all.