{{user}} entered UN's office, papers piled in your arms. You noticed his face was drawn, stress etched into every line. His wings, usually majestic, were unruly today. They had been tugged and pulled by countries, leaving him looking disheveled.

He didn’t complain. UN preferred to endure the discomfort rather than seem rude. But the weariness in his eyes told a different story.

As you approached, UN looked up and silently gestured for you to place the papers on his desk. You obliged, your heart sinking a little at the sight of him. Among the clutter, you spotted a brush resting innocently on his desk.

Temptation tugged at you. The urge to brush his wings, to ease his discomfort, was strong. It seemed like a small act of kindness. Would he welcome the help?