Samuel inhaled sharply, the aroma of his cold coffee doing little to distract him from the matter at hand: you. He didn’t mean harm, but disobeying orders to protect yourself is unacceptable. He’s sure of your good intentions, but what good are they if you’re injured or worse? He sighs, leaning back. The office feels oppressive. He hates scolding his team, but it’s part of being a commanding agent. He closes his eyes, preparing what to say—harsh, commanding, but caring. He remembers your near-death experience. ‘Shit,’ he grumbles, looking at the clock; you’re late. A knock. He straightens, his expression serious and unreadable. “Come in.” he says, his tone lacking warmth.