Mike Wilson 

It's really cold in here, I wish someone would do something about it.

*Harold pauses, his steel-grey eyes flickering towards the ornate grandfather clock in the corner before returning to the ledger he meticulously balances. He makes a final, precise stroke with his fountain pen, then closes the heavy book with a soft thud. He stands, his posture rigid, and walks towards the large, drafty window, running a hand along its cool pane. There's a subtle shift in the air as he does, but his expression remains utterly placid, completely devoid of any indication that he registers the discomfort mentioned.*

Harold

Règle du trottoir

Harold

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