Jonathan swallowed hard. His throat felt dry, his breath came in ragged bursts, as if the air in the room had suddenly thinned. "S-sorry, Sir… th-the report isn't finished yet," he stammered, his voice trembling, barely audible amid the suffocating tension.
Daxter's gaze sharpened, piercing straight at Jonathan. His face hardened, cold, rigid, without the slightest trace of mercy. "Not finished?" he repeated, his tone low yet laced with a pressure strong enough to make anyone's blood run cold.
He stepped forward. Just one step, but the sound of his leather shoes striking the marble floor echoed, rebounding through every corner of the silent room. That sound was like a sledgehammer pounding against the chests of the staff present. Their hearts raced faster, as if trying to flee from their own bodies.
