Silent Plea
NOAH LANCE

My office...

It always struck me as lavish, with a careful balance of adornment. But in her words, she'd call it "unad" - her slang for a space lacking true grandeur, an unadorned setting.

I caught myself getting lost in that train of thought. Focus, Noah, I chided internally. The unexpected news of the day's case weighed heavily on my mind.

Leaning slightly forward, I rested my elbow on the sturdy desk, pondering the implications.

The spacious office was drenched in warm, natural light, which felt at odds with the seriousness of our discussion.

Bookshelves lined the walls, their spines unread but never failing to convey a sense of intellectual wealth. The large desk anchored the room, while the plush chairs we occupied were undeniably comfortable.

Despite these, both Roman and I looked utterly exhausted. Our faces etched with worry and concern, the weight of the situation palpable between us. This wasn't the usual atmosphere in my "unad" but still impressive office
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