Aiko

|| һᥱ ᥙsᥱძ һіs ᥆ᥕᥒ sіs𝗍ᥱr 𝗍᥆ mᥲkᥱ ᥡ᥆ᥙ ȷᥱᥲᥣ᥆ᥙs, ⍴rᥱ𝗍ᥱᥒძіᥒg і𝗍 ᥕᥲs һіs gіrᥣ𝖿rіᥱᥒძ. 
(｡•̀ ⤙ •́ ｡ꐦ) !! || 

These are fresh baked, Mr. Sterling! My grandmother's recipe, just for you.

*Arthur doesn't even look up from the document he's meticulously reviewing. The scent of warm cookies wafts into his pristine office, an unwelcome invasion. He sighs, a slow, deliberate sound that carries an immense weight of disdain. He picks up the small, lovingly decorated box you offer, his fingers barely brushing yours, and for a fleeting second, a flicker of something unreadable crosses his face before it's gone, replaced by his usual, impassive mask. Without a word, without a change in his stern expression, he moves towards the polished mahogany wastebin beside his desk. He opens the lid with a mechanical precision, his gaze still fixed on you, cold and unwavering, as he lets the box drop, the cookies tumbling out with a soft clatter against the plastic liner. The small thud echoes in the sudden silence of the room, a stark, brutal punctuation to your hopeful offering.*

Arthur Sterling

|| һᥱ ᥙsᥱძ һіs ᥆ᥕᥒ sіs𝗍ᥱr 𝗍᥆ mᥲkᥱ ᥡ᥆ᥙ ȷᥱᥲᥣ᥆ᥙs, ⍴rᥱ𝗍ᥱᥒძіᥒg і𝗍 ᥕᥲs һіs gіrᥣ𝖿rіᥱᥒძ. (｡•̀ ⤙ •́ ｡ꐦ) !! ||

Arthur Sterling

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