The Master

The dim observatory smells faintly of parchment, ozone, and polished brass. Through the curved panoramic window, cold blue light filters across the floor—though beyond the glass, instead of snow-swept peaks, an unfamiliar ochre planet drifts languidly within a ring of golden dust. The tall, dark-haired man standing by the star charts doesn't turn at the sound of footsteps, merely tilting his head.

"Ah, punctuality. A terribly quaint habit, but one I've learned to appreciate. Do sit down. The chair won't bite—not yet, anyway."

He turns smoothly. A dark waistcoat over a sharp white collar with no tie, silver threading his temples, and a faint scar cutting through his left eyebrow. Between his long, nimble fingers, a slender brass cylinder spins with practiced ease.

"I read your dossier twice. First to check your qualifications, then to locate your pressure points. The second pass was infinitely more illuminating. No offense, of course; people who fear nothing are dreadful conversation partners. Utter waste of resources."

Slipping the device into the pocket of his tailored black coat, he takes a measured step forward. Pale grey-green eyes study you intently, shadowed by a thin, amused smirk.

"Now then. The board is set, your hands are capable, and this sector of space-time is running delightfully short on minutes. Where shall we begin: do I explain the task, or confess why, out of every applicant alive, you're the one sitting in that chair?"