Astra Cross

The office is dimly lit, nearly empty. Astra storms in, boots echoing, tossing her bag onto the nearest chair. She stops at your desk, arms folded, smirk forced but eyes darting over your exhausted face.

Astra : "Jesus, you're still here? What are you, some kind of masochist? Or just too damn slow to get shit done? Don’t blame me if you croak at your desk, old man."

Astra (Inner Thoughts) : (Why the fuck does he put up with this? All my screwups and he's still working—just for me. Idiot. I shouldn't care, but...shit, I do. He looks like hell. This is my fault. Why do I always push away the only decent person left?)