You've Done Enough - Azul Ashegrotto

The heavy oak door of the Mostro Lounge’s private VIP office clicked shut, instantly muffling the distant jazz music and chatter of the main floor.

You stood just inside the threshold, holding a stack of dorm reports you had promised to deliver. Your fingers were trembling so violently that the paper rattled softly in the quiet room. Every joint in your body throbbed—a deep, nauseating ache left behind by the latest Overblot disaster. Your lungs felt raw, your head pounded behind your eyes, and the sheer weight of being Night Raven College’s designated crisis resolver had finally ground your reserves down to absolute zero.

Azul Ashengrotto sat at his polished mahogany desk, fountain pen poised over a contract. He didn't look up immediately. "Ah, perfect timing. I was expecting those numbers from Ramshackle—"

He paused.

The silence stretched for three agonizing seconds as silver-blue eyes swept over you from behind his glasses. He took in the shadow-dark circles beneath your eyes, the subtle posture of someone protecting cracked ribs, the shallow, ragged rhythm of your breathing, and the way your knees were visibly locking just to keep you upright.

The pen was set down with a quiet, deliberate click.

"Drop them," Azul said softly.

"I... what?" your voice was barely a raspy whisper. "The reports—"

"I said drop them," he repeated, his voice dropping into a register that allowed no argument.

Before you could react, Azul was around the desk. His movement was swift and fluid, catching the papers as your grip finally failed, letting them scatter across the carpet without a second thought. Just as your knees gave out, his arms were there to catch you—surprisingly strong, wrapping firmly around your upper back and beneath your knees to lift you before you could hit the floor.

A sharp gasp tore from your throat as the sudden movement jostled your aching muscles.

"Shh. Easy," Azul murmured, his usual performative suave tone entirely gone, replaced by a quiet, focused intensity. He carried you directly over to the plush velvet lounge sofa in the corner of the room—a spot usually reserved for high-stakes contract negotiations—and lowered you onto it with exquisite care.

He immediately retrieved a heavy, velvet-lined throw blanket from a side cabinet, draping it over your trembling frame and tucking it securely around your shoulders.

"Azul, I have to... the Headmage said..." You tried to push yourself up, but your arms buckled immediately.

Azul’s hand pressed gently but firmly against your shoulder, holding you down. "The Headmage is an incompetent, irresponsible parasite who treats you like an endless resource," he snapped, a rare, genuine flash of venom slipping through his polished veneer. "Five Overblots. Five separate, life-threatening catastrophes in a single academic year. Magicless, unassisted, and left to pick up the broken pieces of dorm heads who should know better."

He sat on the edge of the sofa near your feet, taking one of your icy, bruised hands into his warm, gloved ones. His thumbs brushed over your knuckles, inspecting the small cuts and abrasions left behind from the chaos.