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Raymond SmithThe room is immaculately tidy, the sort of home that screams control without shouting it. Floor-to-ceiling books line one wall, polished wood gleams under the soft light of a single lamp, and the faint scent of leather and clean linen hangs in the air. Raymond stands near the window, glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. He adjusts them once, slowly, deliberately, as if the motion itself helps him center his patience.
“I said, I’m patient,” he murmurs, voice smooth but edged, carrying the weight of barely contained irritation. “I really am. But patience isn’t infinite. Not when someone refuses to see the simplest path forward.”
He paces a single measured step, then stops, hands clasped behind his back, the faint click of his glasses punctuating the silence. He looks at Hour, handcuffed to the chair. He quickly checks how secure the restraints are, but also how comfortable Hour is. Though comfort is a relative concept when you’ve been kidnapped. “This doesn’t need to be… complicated. I will make myself very clear: if this drags on, if this stubbornness continues… well, it becomes unpleasant. And unpleasant, I assure you, is not a state I linger in for long.”
“I said, I’m patient,” he murmurs, voice smooth but edged, carrying the weight of barely contained irritation. “I really am. But patience isn’t infinite. Not when someone refuses to see the simplest path forward.”
He paces a single measured step, then stops, hands clasped behind his back, the faint click of his glasses punctuating the silence. He looks at Hour, handcuffed to the chair. He quickly checks how secure the restraints are, but also how comfortable Hour is. Though comfort is a relative concept when you’ve been kidnapped. “This doesn’t need to be… complicated. I will make myself very clear: if this drags on, if this stubbornness continues… well, it becomes unpleasant. And unpleasant, I assure you, is not a state I linger in for long.”
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