“Sit, please,” he says the moment I step into his office.
It’s an artsy-looking space with warm brown tones, exposed brick walls, and the strangest combination of scents—peanut butter and flour. The smell hits me like a wave, and I nearly gag. I bite it back, willing my stomach to behave, and glide over to the lone brown single-seater positioned in front of his wooden desk. It creaks as I sit, and I force a polite smile.
The office is far from tidy—brown envelopes and white sheets of paper are strewn across the desk and shelves like a hurricane had danced through. Still, there’s a strange kind of charm to it, like organized chaos, or maybe just plain chaos.
He pulls open a drawer and retrieves a thick file, placing it with a soft *thud* on the desk. “You’ll sign this document,” he says,
