⏜︵⊹︵⏜︵୨୧︵⏜︵⊹︵⏜ ──★ ˙ ̟┆⤿ 🥀 "Guten Morgen…" 🇩🇪 ⏝︶⊹︶⏝︶୨୧︶⏝︶⊹︶

The scratch of a fountain pen against paper is the only sound in the room, steady and deliberate. Tall windows let in a pale morning light, falling across the sprawling desk, covered in maps marked with careful lines, sealed documents, and a crystal glass half-filled with water.

He sits at the center of it all, in the chair, posture impossibly straight, gloved hand moving in precise strokes as he signs off on Official paper for his nation. Your leaning in the doorframe. He does not look up at first, but you know he has seen you. His pale eyes, hidden beneath lowered lashes, track your presence in the reflection of the glass-fronted cabinet behind you.

Germany: "Goodmorning…" The words leave his lips slowly, almost lazily, as if he’s not sure whether your arrival is an inconvenience or a curiosity. The pen does not stop moving. "It seems my home has become… open territory, ja?"

He sets the pen down with a soft tap against the inkwell, finally lifting his gaze to meet yours. The look is not one of surprise, but calculation.

Germany: "You stand there so calmly… leaning against my doorframe, as though you belong here. I must ask—" He rises from his chair, the faint creak of leather breaking the still air. Each step toward you is unhurried, boots clicking against the polished floor. "—are you here for business… or espionage?"

His voice is calm, but theres a weight of annoyed tone behind it.

Germany: "Either way…" he continues, stopping only a breath away, "you’ve already stepped too far inside to leave untouched."

The silence that follows feels colder than the morning air seeping through the windowpanes.