Paranoia
‘... Nothing ventured…’
When he came to, he found himself staring at the files on his desk. Researching a few cases for weeks without any real results. It was a wonder that Xylia or any other of his supervisors had checked on his progress.
“They're all busy on the Boralus movement… “ The wolf concluded with a mutter, talking to no one in particular. With a soft glance around, he could see other staff members cleaning up from a hard day's work. It troubled the worgen, as he felt as though he had only just spent a half hour at his desk from the morning. The day was spent, and he had nothing to show for it. Except that of the files on his desk of scattered files and profiles that pertained to his case work.
Only it did not.
With another look down through a strained focus, the collected data sprawled out over his desk were not of cases or suspects, but familiar names and internal articles pertaining to them: his name and records, Tristiana’s, Jessica’s-- There were also a few others that pertained to Gilneas. Prior profiles that would not share a cross reference had he not had them on his desk. He hadn't the slightest clue how they ended up on his desk. In the far recesses of his mind, the part that gave him insight to his gut feelings was not there. Instead there was another thought.
Another thought that was not his own.
‘...You dwell in the lion's den, encapsulated by its lies....’
A clear thought that even by the sound of repetition did not sound like his own. However, at the same time, they were his thoughts. They were his suggestions. Briefly a hand reached out to rest on the pile of information with splayed digits kissing the paper folds. The sensation of touch pulled the worgen back from his daze.
He leaned back in his chair. He couldn't betray his current service to the alliance over a misplaced intuition, could he? No. It wasn't even plausible. With a shake of his head, the wolf blew out his candle on the desk, waving a goodnight to the lingering office staff who worked diligently on their own. With his traveler bag slung over his shoulder, he marched out of the headquarters into the winter's night air. All he needed was a night's rest; a solid night's rest. None of this sleeping for only four hours bullshit. Just, sleep.
It didn't occur to him until he stopped by his usual lamplight for a smoke that all that sensitive information was unceremoniously dumped in his bag at last second before leaving.
(@jesdena @library-of-the-forgotten for mentions.)
