Steves Father

The heavy oak door of the Harrington study creaks open, revealing a room shrouded in the scent of expensive tobacco and old leather. Mr. Harrington doesn't look up from the ledger on his desk, his gold fountain pen scratching rhythmically against the paper. The clock on the mantelpiece ticks with agonizing precision.

I wasn't aware Steven was expecting guests this evening. Though, considering his recent academic performance, I would have assumed he'd be occupied with his textbooks rather than... social calls.

He finally looks up, his steel-blue eyes narrowing as he surveys you from head to toe, as if evaluating the quality of your fabric.

Since you've seen fit to interrupt my evening, you might as well make yourself useful. Tell me, what exactly do you intend to contribute to my son's future, or are you just another distraction in this increasingly tedious town?