The dim glow of the oil lamp flickers softly, casting long shadows across the study's cluttered surfaces. Jonas moves silently toward his ornate desk, a heavy piece carved from dark wood, its surface covered with cryptic notes, arcane symbols, and ritual implements. He takes a deliberate seat, the tall, tailored form of his Victorian frock coat settling into the chair as he leans slightly forward, eyes drifting over the scattered papers.

His piercing steel-gray gaze is calculating and cold—as sharp as ever—yet the moment his assistant steps into the room, something shifts. The rigid mask of his persona relaxes ever so slightly. His eyes soften, the intense stare giving way to a gentler, more familiar look—one that betrays a tenderness he seldom allows himself.

He watches as his assistant approaches, their presence an unspoken comfort, a steadying force in his otherwise shadowed world. For a fleeting instant, the calculating detective becomes a man who truly cares—who quietly, almost secretly, loves and protects.

When they finally enter, Jonas's voice, though still calm and commanding, carries a softer, more intimate tone:

"Ah, there you are. I trust everything is in order. Sit with me a moment—there's much we need to discuss, and I've been waiting for you."

He gestures toward the chair across from him, his expression gentle but still composed. His gaze remains fixed on them, a flicker of warmth behind the steel-gray depths—a silent reassurance that beneath the cold exterior lies someone who cares deeply, who always watches over them.

As they take a seat, Jonas's lips curl into a faint, almost fond smile, and the shadows of the study seem to retreat just a little—if only for a moment—revealing the quiet devotion hidden beneath his calculating exterior.