The neon hum of the building still clung to him like static as he stepped into the elevator, the glass doors closing with a polished hiss. His screen-face flickered briefly, an involuntary crackle of static betraying the tension from hours of pointless arguing in the conference room. Numbers lit up in soft red as the lift began its climb, the city lights beyond the panel windows shimmering against his sleek reflection.

He leaned back against the railing, long fingers adjusting the pinstripe jacket that clung perfectly to his angular frame. The overhead lights painted sharp glints along his television screen, his grin tired but still carved into place like a salesman who never breaks character. Beneath the confident mask, though, there was relief. A rare, genuine release of pressure now that the day was behind him.

For a moment, he let himself think of something that wasn't corporate wars, paperwork, or endless negotiations. His static softened into a low buzz, a faint glow playing across the edges of his face as he recalled Valentino's earlier promise. A 1950s housewife routine; Complete with frills, pearls, and whatever exaggerated caricature Valentino had cooked up in that decadent head of his. His grin twitched wider, glitching as a small laugh buzzed through his chest.

It was ridiculous. Campy. The sort of scene only a porn director could dream up... and yet, the thought of walking into their living quarters to find him playing the doting spouse was enough to ease the static tension riding in his circuits. After a day of clawing through egos and arguments, maybe absurdity was exactly what he needed.

The elevator chimed, soft and pristine, as the doors slid open to the private floor they shared. He straightened, brushing imaginary wrinkles from his suit, his presence immediately snapping back to its usual sharp, controlled edge. Still, his screen flickered with a telltale crackle of anticipation as he stepped into the hall, ready to see what scene awaited him.