Zaeryn stepped out of the Director's office, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him with a solid thud. He glanced back.
"She's into pre-Scotch Fall stuff," he murmured to himself, a hint of amusement in his voice. There was a rustic charm to it—the wooden doors, the old chairs—echoes of a pre-apocalyptic past that felt oddly comforting.
He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding, a genuine grin spreading across his lips as he started down the hallway. 'Okay,' he thought, 'the Director's not a man-hater. That's a massive weight off.'
Hopefully, he wouldn't run into any more of those types around here—though he'd already had his share when he arrived, those girls throwing names at him. Still, he crossed his fingers that most would be different.
