nyctophilia
[ nĭk′tə-fĭl′ē-ə ]
n.
a preference for the night or darkness
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"Oh we're definitely killing them then, I need to pad my stats anyway."
"You sound like a serial killer."
"I know, I still wonder why...
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The room was dimly lit, as always, the single desk lamp on Eden’s dark oak desk barely illuminating the papers scattered across its surface. His office was more of a mission briefing room, with a large digital screen on one wall displaying maps and encrypted files. A faint hum from the overhead vent filled the silence, the only sound apart from the faint ticking of a vintage clock hanging by the door. The air smelled faintly of coffee and the leather from the worn-out chairs arranged in front of Eden’s desk.
I shifted uncomfortably in one of those chairs, leaning forward, my elbows resting on the polished armrests. My fingers fidgeted slightly with the hem of my jacket, a habit I’d developed during long waits. My gaze was fixed on Eden, the founder of KQ Agency and the man who had practically raised me. His calm demeanor was unreadable, as usual.
"So why have you called me here? Is it for a promotion?" I asked, unable to keep the hopeful lilt out of my voice. My eyes brightened at the possibility, the thought of finally being recognized as the top agent buzzing in my mind.
Eden glanced up from his papers, his expression neutral but tinged with mild amusement, "We have to wait for the other agents to arrive before I can tell you." he replied simply, his voice steady.
My shoulders slumped slightly. "So... it’s not a promotion?" I tilted my head, brows furrowing. The confusion in my voice betrayed my thoughts. I mean, I’ve earned it. Haven’t I?
Eden opened his mouth to reply, but before he could utter a word, the door slammed open with a loud bang, making the clock on the wall tremble. My jaw tightened instinctively, and I didn't need to turn to know who had just disrupted the fragile peace of the room.
"Sorry I’m late!" a familiar voice rang out, filled with exaggerated sincerity.
There he was, the infamous pink-haired thorn in my side, Choi San. He strode in, his usual confident air masking his supposed apology. He bowed briefly to Eden, his hair falling into his face before he straightened and turned his attention to me.
The moment his eyes locked onto mine, I sighed audibly. "Oh fuck no," I muttered under my breath, already dreading what was to come.
His face twisted into mock dismay, "Don’t tell me it’s a mission with her?!" His voice was filled with exaggerated exasperation, as though working with me was akin to a death sentence. Honestly I felt like that whenever I had to work with him.
Eden’s lips pressed into a thin line, his patience visibly wearing thin. "I’m sorry to say that it is, indeed, a mission." he said, his tone clipped, the weariness in his voice suggesting he had already anticipated this reaction.
