What precedes Tseng's arrival is a chill in the air, a terrible tension that crackles electric. He does not slam his way into the room—he does nothing out of the ordinary, in fact, though his gait is perhaps half a beat quicker. Somehow, it is still clear that something is absolutely wrong.
He will keep it concealed, but he is not in a good mood. The guard who flagged him down, relaying the message through one of his personal coterie because he did not have clearance for the lower levels, described this particular scene blood-first. 'So much blood.' Tseng had overheard those words, still down in his office. He pushed past the guard while he was still explaining the situation. The finer details were absolutely unnecessary.
The elevator had taken forever. Tseng could have screamed the whole way up. Seventy stories of the worst feeling in his gut he's ever endured. By the time the readout signals 70, he can barely keep the rage from making his hands tremble.
He says nothing. He strides across the floor, gaze drifting to the pile of bloody clothes left abandoned. He reaches out for Rufus, turns him. His hands wander Rufus's body, looking for marks, bruises, cuts, anything. The cut across his neck is the focus of his icy stare.
And then his arms wind around Rufus, tight. They pin Rufus to his chest. He's not sure if this is an embrace, or him trying to squeeze the bravado out of him, or if it's something else altogether. His voice is low to account for how terribly the world is spinning.
"You did something stupid," he says, his arms squeezing even tighter, "didn't you."
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He will keep it concealed, but he is not in a good mood. The guard who flagged him down, relaying the message through one of his personal coterie because he did not have clearance for the lower levels, described this particular scene blood-first. 'So much blood.' Tseng had overheard those words, still down in his office. He pushed past the guard while he was still explaining the situation. The finer details were absolutely unnecessary.
The elevator had taken forever. Tseng could have screamed the whole way up. Seventy stories of the worst feeling in his gut he's ever endured. By the time the readout signals 70, he can barely keep the rage from making his hands tremble.
He says nothing. He strides across the floor, gaze drifting to the pile of bloody clothes left abandoned. He reaches out for Rufus, turns him. His hands wander Rufus's body, looking for marks, bruises, cuts, anything. The cut across his neck is the focus of his icy stare.
And then his arms wind around Rufus, tight. They pin Rufus to his chest. He's not sure if this is an embrace, or him trying to squeeze the bravado out of him, or if it's something else altogether. His voice is low to account for how terribly the world is spinning.
"You did something stupid," he says, his arms squeezing even tighter, "didn't you."