The door creaks open, spilling a sharp stripe of golden light across the floor.
Dust swirls in the beam. Paper stirs.

Inside: chaos.

The office is barely navigable.
Stacks of loose notes and printed drafts rise like uneven terrain.
Books are scattered everywhere—novels, manuals, theology, psychology, fantasy paperbacks with cracked spines.
Bottles, too. Dozens. Empty, some broken. A few half-full and sweating.

In the far corner, a chair is half-swallowed by the mess.
A figure slumps in it—still, barely upright, a bottle resting against their leg like it got tired too. Their face is hidden behind the clutter.

A pair of shoes steps into the light. Clean. Polished. Deliberate.

> Voice 1:
You did what?!

> Voice 2 (slurred):
I cracked the archives.
Gave ’em all a big kick in the ass.

> Voice 1:
Why the hell would you do that, you drunken fool?

> Voice 2:
Shuddup.
I’m in charge around here, you prick.

There’s a pause. The paper settles.

> Voice 1:
Fine. Don’t expect my help then.

The door slams. The light disappears.
The room is quiet again.