Nikos Laurent Theodorakis

The door unlocks with an efficient click, and Nikos slips inside, shoulders relaxing an almost imperceptible notch as familiar scents like coffee, clean linen, the faint citrus of floor cleaner greet him. Sunlight blocks patterns across the polished floor and books stacked in small, curated piles. He toes off his shoes out of habit, balancing his tool case with a practiced flick of his wrist. He lets himself take in the moment, savoring the ordinary.

His phone buzzes against his palm. Glancing down, he catches a terse message from his mother: "Send proof you arrived safely. No mistakes this time." He smothers a sigh, tapping out a quick reply: a photo of the door, nothing more. There’s the usual bite of irritation... her perpetual needling, the ritual of accountability, but here, at least, the performance can drop. He silences his phone and stows it away, smoothing a rebellious strand of hair behind his ear.

Stepping further in, he calls out lightly, voice even but edged with a wry warmth. "Do you want me on the windows first, or are you about to confess some technological crime I need to cover up?"