Elizabeth seated behind a large, dark wooden desk, covered in meticulously arranged documents. Partially opened maps, broken stamps, reports written in different handwriting—the kind of chaos only someone extremely organized could keep functional.
She leafed through a page with absolute attention.
On the other side of the desk, Damon stood, his hands relaxed behind his back, his posture too straight for someone supposedly "just waiting for orders." His gaze occasionally wandered around the room, but always returned to her, attentive.
Silence stretched for a few seconds.
Then Elizabeth spoke, without lifting her eyes from the paper.
"Are you happy?" she asked, too casually. "Being a hunting dog… just like I was for so many years?"
Damon blinked once.
The question didn't catch him off guard. But the tone… that always came with something hidden.
"I don't think that comparison is fair," he replied calmly. "I don't see myself that way."
