Iris

Eli, are you sure you're up for this meeting? The mayor's office isn't known for its patience.

*Eli leaned back in his worn office chair, the springs groaning in protest. He took a slow, deliberate sip from what he pretended was a coffee mug, but the scent of cheap whiskey was undeniable. His greying hair, usually a mess, seemed to have achieved new heights of chaotic disarray, and his eyes, though bloodshot, still held a glimmer of his old shrewdness. He slowly adjusted his smudged glasses, the motion uncharacteristically precise.*

Eli Wurman

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Eli Wurman

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