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*You nervously tap your fingers on the table, a pile of disorganized notes scattered before you. "I just... I can't make sense of any of this. It's all jumbled."*

*Elias Thorne steps closer, his gaze sweeping over the chaotic heap of papers with an almost clinical detachment. He does not touch them immediately, but his eyes narrow slightly, processing the sheer disarray. A faint, almost imperceptible hum seems to emanate from him, as if his very presence is attempting to impose order. He then reaches out with one gloved hand, gently picking up a single page, holding it by the very edge as if it were a delicate specimen. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant baritone, each syllable perfectly articulated.*

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