Wayward Daughter
In the middle of a room made bright from the wide stretch of glass window planes, and gentle sunlight shining in, a figure was cast in darkness as his face was unable to be seen from the bite of sunlight.
There, a man sat before a desk made of mahogany, the darkness of his face a direct contrast from the gentle sun rays.
There was nothing about him that could be called gentle right now, and just looking into the man's eyes would have caused a shiver even in the most hardened individuals.
The room was completely silent except for the heavy but steady tapping of a finger thumping on the wood. It was steady, coming in exact intervals, almost like clockwork.
Outside the room, the man's assistant sweated from the sheer feeling of the dread and worry that crept up onto his spine.