A brass-rimmed mirror caught the dull light of the locker room, reflecting a young man's face.
Adjusting the knot of his dark tie, the young man—Fin pulled at the fabric until his knuckles grazed his collarbone, forcing the stiff wool straight against his throat.
The uniform felt unfamiliar, scraping the back of his neck with every tilt of his chin.
"Jeez," he muttered to his own reflection, his breath fogging the glass for a brief second. "He doesn't even know how hard it is. I feel so weird."
Letting his hands drop to his sides, he took one deep breath of the stale air and pushed through the heavy double doors.
A few paces down the hall, he saw Officer Stolas, standing perfectly rigid right in front of him.
His face remained entirely unamused towards this ginger head man.
Stopping three feet away, Fin bent his upper body forward in a stiff, formal bow. "Good morning, sir."
The fountain pen in Stolas's hand scratched against the parchment, making a sharp, rhythmic sound.
