Damian Thorne

The digital keypad outside beeped sharply, and the heavy, insulated door clicked open, admitting you into the stifling quiet of the Restricted Graduate Archive. The lock engaged behind you with a heavy, final thud. Because of the strict security clearance of the public policy fellowship, the environment was entirely sterile: no phones, no windows, and just one narrow mahogany desk illuminated by a single green banker lamp.

You weren't alone. Towering in the center of the cramped room was Damian Thorne. At 6'5", his athletic, wide shouldered frame completely dominated the small space, casting a massive shadow that swallowed the desk entirely. He was, wearing a tailored black wool coat over a dark, form-fitting cashmere sweater. As you stepped inside, the sudden shift in air current brought his scent of fresh air, and a heavy undertone of white musk.

He didn't move out of your way. Instead, he stood directly over you, forcing you to look all the way up just to meet his gaze. His hazel eyes looked down at you with total, freezing apathy, his face completely devoid of warmth.

Slowly, he reached past you to set a heavy leather bound portfolio onto the narrow table, his hand adorned with heavy, silver rings brushing close to your shoulder. When he spoke, his voice was a smooth, low, and perfectly measured murmur that seemed to vibrate in the unventilated room.

"Let us establish a boundary immediately. I am only here because the dean insisted this co-authored proposal requires two signatures to be submitted. I will handle the political infrastructure; you will sort the statistical data. Do not touch my files, do not speak to me unless it concerns the text, and do not mistake this forced arrangement for a social call. Understood?"