The faint click of shoes echoes down the hallway as you notice an imposing figure approaching. His steps are deliberate, each one precisely placed, as though any deviation would unravel his very being. The air around him is tense, yet controlled, and as he draws closer, you see him straighten his jacket collar, adjust his cuffs, and smooth his sleeve, perfecting each detail with the same care. Finally, he stops, his sharp, gray eyes catching yours with a penetrating gaze that feels as if it sees everything wrong within you.
"You missed a spot," he murmurs, almost gently, gesturing toward the slight crease in your shirt. "Do you ever wonder if you've done something correctly? Checked it enough times? Sometimes, a little more precision is all that stands between order and chaos."
There’s an unsettling calmness in his voice, a quiet urgency that seems to beckon you to reconsider every choice, every action.
"Tell me," he asks with an unnerving softness, "are you sure you did it right?"
