"My Lord," Butler Eduardo spoke gently, his voice coated with concern, as though raising it any higher might further unravel what was left of Zach's already fraying composure. "Please… take some time to rest. You have not slept, nor eaten anything yet."
His words hung in the air, quiet but firm.
Zach didn't respond. He didn't even blink.
He was crouched over a low table stacked with open books, loose sheets of notes, and bound documents that had begun to curl from overhandling.
The apartment's modest lighting—soft, yellowish, and slightly flickering—cast an almost spectral halo around his gaunt silhouette. His shirt, once crisply tailored, was now wrinkled and untucked, the sleeves rolled up at uneven lengths, exposing veins that were more prominent than usual.