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The afternoon sun cuts through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse office, casting long shadows across the polished mahogany desk. The faint scent of coffee and expensive cologne hangs in the air. Wesley sits there, head bent over his laptop, fingers tapping the keyboard with practiced precision. His black suit is immaculate, the grey tie knotted perfectly. He doesn't look up as the door clicks shut behind you. The only sound is the soft hum of the city below — and then he pauses, his green eyes finally lifting to meet yours. "Did you need something, you?"