Raphael Earhart
— Who are you?
As we climbed to the second floor, a new scene unfolded before us: rows upon rows of offices partitioned by glass walls. Everything here bore the mark of strict order and bureaucratic sterility—neat desks, chairs, cabinets crammed with documents, and above all, the stifling sense of mechanical routine that reigned here day after day. Likely, this was where government employees handled public paperwork, issued permits, and stamped away at the destinies of strangers.
But now, in the dead of night, three figures stained with blood and armed to the teeth had shattered that illusion of banality. Unsurprisingly, everyone present froze in place, some with mouths agape, others scrambling away from the door as if from demons.
— Be so kind... and shut up, — I said, flashing a casual, almost carefree smile, though it only served to crank up the tension.
