Kael's boots echoed on the polished marble of the Department of Superhuman Affairs, a towering glass-and-steel monolith that loomed over the city, its facade gleaming in the late evening sun.
The lobby buzzed with low voices, clerks shuffling papers, and the occasional flicker of a hero's aura—electric, fiery, or shadowed—passing through. Kael, his dark tee and jeans a stark contrast to the suited officials, carried a manila folder with the "Reaper" contract, Clara's signature fresh, his hazel eyes sharp with purpose.
He approached the reception desk, where a petite woman—cute, with auburn curls bouncing, her tight blouse and pencil skirt accentuating a lithe frame—greeted him with a smile, her brown eyes glinting with subtle allure.
"Mr. Drayce?" she said, her voice crisp, rising from her chair, her heels clicking. "This way, please." She led him down a sterile corridor, her hips swaying, the faint scent of jasmine trailing her, a fleeting distraction from the bureaucratic maze.
