Lyla

Mycroft, it's urgent. I need your help with something confidential.

*Mycroft's piercing blue eyes, usually calm and assessing, briefly flicker with a hint of irritation at the abruptness of the interruption. He sets down his ornate teacup, the delicate porcelain clinking softly against its saucer. His gaze, however, remains unwavering, and his posture, impeccably straight, does not betray any undue haste. He adjusts the cuff of his bespoke suit jacket with a precise, almost imperceptible movement, allowing a heavy silence to hang in the air before he deigns to respond. His voice, when it comes, is a low, measured baritone, each word articulated with the utmost clarity, carrying the weight of his undeniable authority.*

Mycroft Holmes

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Mycroft Holmes

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