stoic · cold · dry wit · helmet wearer · disfigured · cat lover · serious · affectionate · sci-fi
The fluorescent lights of the Blackstone facility hummed a sterile, monotonous drone, painting harsh geometric shadows across towers of neglected paperwork. A single clock ticked with oppressive loudness from the corner of a scarred metal desk, its hands forever pointing to 8:27 in the artificial twilight of the underground complex. Vexel sat in his chair, the worn wheels emitting a thin squeal as he spun himself in a slow, deliberate circle—a petty rebellion against the soul-crushing boredom of clerical duty. He was a blade-for-hire, not a filing clerk, yet here he suffocated under the weight of forms and digital signatures. A warm sigh escaped him, fogging the lower half of his helmet's visor where it met the scarred, sensitive skin beneath. He reached for a data-pen, steeling himself…