Encounterlogs
Mikhaels Odd Encounter Sr Aristotle 240604
In the sophisticated, shadow-laden foyer of a modern penthouse, Mikhael stumbles through his morning routine, disheveled and weary, marked by a night seemingly filled with more than just dreams. His day begins lethargically, with the mundane act of lighting a cigarette, only to be interrupted by a persistent ringing phone. The caller, a panicked intern from the Hand, confesses a grave mistake: revealing his supernatural side to impress people at a masquerade, inadvertently involving a reporter who now threatens to expose their world. Mikhael, with an air of nonchalance yet underlying urgency, promises to handle the situation, instructing the intern to provide details on the reporter.
As Mikhael prepares to confront the issue, he enlists the help of Borislav Pavlov from the Russian mob to gather information on the reporter, Julia Ashfield. Dressing with an effort towards normalcy, he drives to the Antlers Hotel, where Julia awaits, potentially unaware of the storm headed her way. Upon arrival, Mikhael's commanding presence easily bypasses the usual hotel formalities, leading him directly to Julia's door. When confronted, Julia attempts a feeble resistance, masking fear with threats of calling security. Mikhael, unphased and with ominous intent, effortlessly invades her space, asserting their need to discuss her ill-advised threat against them. The story concludes with Mikhael's phone receiving an alert, presumably part of his meticulously orchestrated plan to contain the situation, leaving Julia with a dwindling number of options and highlighting Mikhael's ruthless efficiency in protecting their secret world.
(Mikhael's odd encounter(SRAristotle):SRAristotle)
[Mon Jun 3 2024]
In the Foyer of a Dark, Elegant Penthouse
The dark, modern penthouse foyer exudes refined sophistication. Polished black marble floors reflect dim ambient light, setting a luxurious tone from the moment you step inside. Deep slate grey walls are complemented by a sleek console table with brushed steel legs, adorned with minimalist sculptures that cast intricate, captivating shadows.
The walls feature black decorative wallpaper with subtle, textured patterns, adding depth and an air of understated elegance to the space. A striking chandelier composed of interlocking black metal rings hangs from the ceiling, its warm light creating a mesmerizing interplay of light and shadow. This illumination highlights the contemporary art pieces, each strategically placed and illuminated by discreet spotlights, adding layers of visual interest.
The air is cool and carries a faint scent of leather and cedar, enhancing the atmosphere of refined sophistication. At the end of the foyer, tall matte-black double doors with sleek vertical handles stand imposingly, hinting at the opulent luxury that lies beyond, inviting you to explore further into this elegant haven.
It is afternoon, about 86F(30C) degrees,
(An amateur paranormal investigator has stumbled onto the truth of the supernatural world and has evidence. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
OOC: Hello! Thank you for accepting! :) Go ahead and emote what you were up to, and we'll get started!
The late start to the day has Mikhael barely shuffling on. There are a plethora of notifications on his phone that go amiss for the moment, but he's out of it, not quite present in the way that he seems unusually disheveled. It suggests he's had to sleep in his suit, maybe overworked while his shoes drag on through the hallway to the foyer - not yet ready for the day. After an ordeal of a walk that has him pause in the grim decor of the penthouse's entry, he tucks in his shirt first, fixes a few loose buttons over a faintly bloodied button-up, and fishes out a pack of smokes from his pocket to start his extremely late morning properly.
The first cigarette is laid between his teeth, lit with a wayside lighter from the console table, and the impliment is tossed away in the next breath to nowhere in particular so he can turn away into the deeper sanctum of his apartment in search of something to drink. Given the state of the living area being a total mess, it is likely going to be booze left on the coffee table that he now slowly makes a beeline to.
An otherwise quiet, lethargic start to the day goes continually interrupted as someone moves about the home. The incessant beeping from his phone perpetually seems to petition his attention, even as he moves for the alcohol on the table. It isn't long before those beeps turn to a full ringtone as his phone rings, and rings, and rings.
An otherwise quiet, lethargic start to the day goes continually interrupted as Mikhael moves about the home. The incessant beeping from his phone perpetually seems to petition his attention, even as he moves for the alcohol on the table. It isn't long before those beeps turn to a full ringtone as his phone rings, and rings, and rings.
The ringing goes just as uncared for. There is always something that demands Mikhael's attention, but Mikhael doesn't seem like the type to give it so easily. Not when it isn't in his own accord. The incessant buzz and default chime is put on hold long enough for him to capture a bottle of whiskey with a hand trailing smoke from the back of his fingers carrying the smoke, and he tips it up, chugs the whole thing down. Only when not a drop is left he chucks it over hi shoulder, doesn't care for it when it splinters across the marble floors - he's already moving again, shrugging out of his jacket with some lazy exchange of cigarette in his hands. Jacket left behind, his nudging kick opens the balcony door for him to slip outside and find some respite, at last. Clear air that he can taint with his poison stick - and only then he deigns to take his phone from his pocket, click the answer button at the last few rings and bring it up to his ear. "Mikhael." He informs, disinterest thick in his voice.
The initial answer, the moment Mikhael answers and responds, is a desperate, "WHY THE HELL DON'T YOU ANSWER!? Did you see the messages? It's important!" It's shrill, and it's a voice that Mikhael would recognize. It seems it's one of the interns in the Hand. His manners, likely forgotten in the moment due to whatever it is that is pressing on his mind that spurned the call. "It's some serious shit. I fucked up bad, man... and I don't know what to do about it."
On this end of the phone, at being met with the shrill voice, Mikhael erupts in a low chuckle in reply. He waits patiently until the end of their explanation, barebones as it is, while his arms laid on the guard rails of his balcony support his weight. The cigarette is tipped over, ash scattered down the building almost too idly. "Deep breaths, do that." The suggestion, somewhat sounding like a demand, comes low, calm, followed by a brief interlude so he can take a drag and let the smoke ride on his words. "I didn't look at anything, just spill it, it can't be that bad." As crimson eyes trail low, he pokes at his shirt, tries to scratch out some blood spattered on the surface near his abdomen.
There's silence on the other line for a moment. Mikhael's suggestion, or rather... demand, has the person on the other line complying. And then, there's the sound of a slow inhale, and a slow exhale. It lasts a few moments before he speaks again, and when he does it's a bit more measured. However, the stress in his voice is still unmitigated. "S-sorry. I fucked up. I got... faded at the masquerade and way too drunk and in one of those themed rooms downstairs, the gold one, I was with a few girls, you know? And I just wanted to impress them... I showed them what I could do." He explains, a bit shamefully. "I shifted in front of them... And it was cool or something at first but I didn't know they had cameras and one of them was a fucking reporter..."
"And I didn't even get laid because I drank too much and threw up..." The intern then adds, as if that's the most egregious offense.
The silence begets Mikhael to wait, he takes a few more drags of his cigarette, drains it practically half-way through until he's had just about enough. Ash and smoke are both sighed out, not in dejection or disappointed, though it could easily come off as such while he listens, still ever-patient, and his poison stick is aimed too casually to the downstairs balcony to be flicked down and made into someone elses problem. His own part of the silence in the midst of his intern's explanation ends with the addendum, the most egregious offense. He smirks, and chuckles again for it. "Do you know who the girl is? Give me a name, an address, workplace, whatever. I'll handle it." Easy enough deference to take the problem to his own hands, and the situation is made to be a lesson when he informs. "Your mistake is my mistake, and your actions reflect upon me. Keep that in mind." And after a beat, he adds, staring down at the back of his hand as if inspecting his fingers, the dried, crusted blood at the tip of each of them. Humored. "And next time, at least get fucking laid."
"I'm sorry," comes the reply on the other line, when the lesson is given. He's silent for another moment, and lets out an, "Mhm," in confirmation. "I know her. Her name is Julia Ashfield and she's out of Boston, but I think she's still in town. She showed me the video she took and she's saying... or threatening? I don't know... to write about it. I'm trying to be chill so she doesn't like... dip off, but she wanted me to meet her at the Antlers Hotel for more information. Normally I'd try to deal with it myself, but... she was saying shit about like, if something happens to her, then the video is set to posted after a while and, like, I know I was wearing hand symbols and.... yeah... She's room 304."
"You are a piece of work." Mikhael tells off, more humor evidently shown, but he works to rub his fingers together, flake off the dried blood away. "The antlers makes it a problem, but I wager we can get it bombed online if she posts anything. I'm more about showing her why it is a bad idea, what she did." His words come with a dismissal, Mikhael shoves away from the rails, turns inward back to the house and shuts the balcony door in his wake. "Don't drink in public again for a while until you learn your lesson." No more opportunity to speak is given to the intern when Mikhael ends the call, starts to move up to the kitchen, and dials another number, and the phone is set between his ear and his shoulder so he can run the sink and start washing his hands, start washing up. Whomever he's calling, it is distinctly not of the Hand - no, it is none other than his trusty sidekick, Borislav Pavlov, and the Russsian mob better pick up or its his neck on the plate next time. Should the elusively quiet Russian pick up, he'd inform curtly, imply, and quickly. "Julia Ashfield. Boston. Reporter. Narrow it down, you have thirty minutes, an hour tops if you want to piss me off. You know the deal, find a relative, a sister, brother, send me a picture when you do."
There's something on the other line as the intern tries to reply, but Mikhael has already disconnected the call. The next call is answered after a moment of ringing, and the information relayed easily enough. There's a confirmation on the other line before it disconnects. Borislav seems to make a promise that he'll have something for him within the time limit given. For now, it seems Julia is waiting at the Antlers for her 'appointment' with this intern to begin, discussing topics that would reflect quite poorly on quite a lot of individuals, especially the Hand.
The almost non-verbal reply isn't anything out of the norm, apparently, because me finishes up, flicks his hands into the sink and removes his phone to toss it into his pocket. He takes his time to wash his face, brush his hair with his hand, do the bare minimum to be presentable as he fixes his attire, and thus himself further, and he's off. The jacket he's discard on the sofa is picked up in his wake, tossed over his shoulders again, and he picks up his sunglasses as well to set them over his eyes. At least they aren't off-putting in this heat and at this hour, complete a look of normalcy when he eventually picks up his keys by the foyer and slips out of the penthouse without any further ado.
The elevator is taken as opposed to the stairs, and Mikhael makes a beeline straight for the alley in brisk, but formal pace to slip into the daylight and approach his trusty steed parked in the shadowy recess. The doors unlock with the proximity of his keys and he slips into the driver's seat - presses the start ignition, straps himself in. He drives out like a geriatric out the alley, and into the streets. The very same manner of driving ensues, his goal and destination clear.
By the time Mikhael freshens himself up, maneuvers to his vehicle, and drives off like a geriatric on a mission, it's been roughly about twenty minutes or so. And, another few minutes pass before he's sighting The Antlers in the distance. Borislav should be sending information over shortly, unless he's wanting to piss Mikhael off. Parking at the Antlers, when Mikhael is ready, is a short affair. It doesn't seem terribly busy today, but unsurprising considering it's a hotel in a small town.
Twenty minutes, a new record. Mikhael must be getting faster. After he's parked, he leaves the vehicle in short order and his brisk pace ensues yet again to carry him into the building without any wait whatsoever, no distraction or wandering of attention allowed. The reception shirks at the sight of him, perhaps in reaction to the way he's left their rooms, once or twice when he was stilly newly minted in town, which wasn't that long ago at all. Fresh in memory. He doesn't linger there either, makes for the stairs, straight up to the third floor, and a turn when he's up there. Unless he has been interrupted in search of room 304 to find it, he'd knock, and wait.
There wasn't any interruption for Mikhael. He moves with the benefit of someone who belongs there, and since he doesn't look lost, it was easy for the workers to assume he was either a tenant here, or a guest of a guest. He goes unobscured to the third floor. 304 is found with little effort, and as he knocks he can hear some scuffling on the other side. A muffled voice can be heard, female, on her way towards the door. "I was wondering how long you'd leave me waiting--" she says, before the door opens and she's surprised to see Mikhael there. "Oh!" She says, quietly. "You weren't who I was expecting. Can I help you?" She asks. The door does start to slightly close, but she leaves it open enough out of politeness. She's a pretty girl - blonde, with stark green eyes, and shorter than Mikhael which given his height isn't a surprise.
"No, but maybe you can help yourself." Mikhael relays in response to her quiet question with an all too polite smile. How genuine it is isn't laid bare, but in the same breath, he shoves a foot forward to trap the door from closing in any further. The laid-back attitude he held in his house is gone entirely, replaced by the warworn way he carries himself that heralds trepidation, an monstrous ken and a predatory gleam to everything that he ever does as one of his hands capture the edge of the door to shove it open for his intrusion.
Another step, and Mikhael is inside. "I am exactly who you should've expected." The door slams shut in his wake, creaks in its hinges - and red eyes veiled by the shades seek out the stark green of her gaze with clear intent to burrow his intimidation deep in the slate and marble fold of his features that loom over her, now. "We have business to discuss, do we not, Ms. Ashfield?"
It seems Julia wasn't expecting Mikhael to shove his way inside with his foot to prevent the door closing. Her hand tenses on the door, but her strength likely pales in comparison to his, and he's stepped inside easily enough. Julia, startled, takes several steps back, and it looks like where her feet have carried her is towards the desk where the phone is. It's clear she's going to make an attempt to reach for it, but it seems she's biding her time. "You need to leave." She says, and she tries to add an assertion in her voice, as if to suggest she's got some power over him that she already knows she doesn't. "I don't know you. We don't have anything to discuss. Get out before I call security."
A few moments later, Mikhael's phone begins to alert him - just one notification, ready for him to view.
As Mikhael prepares to confront the issue, he enlists the help of Borislav Pavlov from the Russian mob to gather information on the reporter, Julia Ashfield. Dressing with an effort towards normalcy, he drives to the Antlers Hotel, where Julia awaits, potentially unaware of the storm headed her way. Upon arrival, Mikhael's commanding presence easily bypasses the usual hotel formalities, leading him directly to Julia's door. When confronted, Julia attempts a feeble resistance, masking fear with threats of calling security. Mikhael, unphased and with ominous intent, effortlessly invades her space, asserting their need to discuss her ill-advised threat against them. The story concludes with Mikhael's phone receiving an alert, presumably part of his meticulously orchestrated plan to contain the situation, leaving Julia with a dwindling number of options and highlighting Mikhael's ruthless efficiency in protecting their secret world.
(Mikhael's odd encounter(SRAristotle):SRAristotle)
[Mon Jun 3 2024]
In the Foyer of a Dark, Elegant Penthouse
The dark, modern penthouse foyer exudes refined sophistication. Polished black marble floors reflect dim ambient light, setting a luxurious tone from the moment you step inside. Deep slate grey walls are complemented by a sleek console table with brushed steel legs, adorned with minimalist sculptures that cast intricate, captivating shadows.
The walls feature black decorative wallpaper with subtle, textured patterns, adding depth and an air of understated elegance to the space. A striking chandelier composed of interlocking black metal rings hangs from the ceiling, its warm light creating a mesmerizing interplay of light and shadow. This illumination highlights the contemporary art pieces, each strategically placed and illuminated by discreet spotlights, adding layers of visual interest.
The air is cool and carries a faint scent of leather and cedar, enhancing the atmosphere of refined sophistication. At the end of the foyer, tall matte-black double doors with sleek vertical handles stand imposingly, hinting at the opulent luxury that lies beyond, inviting you to explore further into this elegant haven.
It is afternoon, about 86F(30C) degrees,
(An amateur paranormal investigator has stumbled onto the truth of the supernatural world and has evidence. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
OOC: Hello! Thank you for accepting! :) Go ahead and emote what you were up to, and we'll get started!
The late start to the day has Mikhael barely shuffling on. There are a plethora of notifications on his phone that go amiss for the moment, but he's out of it, not quite present in the way that he seems unusually disheveled. It suggests he's had to sleep in his suit, maybe overworked while his shoes drag on through the hallway to the foyer - not yet ready for the day. After an ordeal of a walk that has him pause in the grim decor of the penthouse's entry, he tucks in his shirt first, fixes a few loose buttons over a faintly bloodied button-up, and fishes out a pack of smokes from his pocket to start his extremely late morning properly.
The first cigarette is laid between his teeth, lit with a wayside lighter from the console table, and the impliment is tossed away in the next breath to nowhere in particular so he can turn away into the deeper sanctum of his apartment in search of something to drink. Given the state of the living area being a total mess, it is likely going to be booze left on the coffee table that he now slowly makes a beeline to.
An otherwise quiet, lethargic start to the day goes continually interrupted as someone moves about the home. The incessant beeping from his phone perpetually seems to petition his attention, even as he moves for the alcohol on the table. It isn't long before those beeps turn to a full ringtone as his phone rings, and rings, and rings.
An otherwise quiet, lethargic start to the day goes continually interrupted as Mikhael moves about the home. The incessant beeping from his phone perpetually seems to petition his attention, even as he moves for the alcohol on the table. It isn't long before those beeps turn to a full ringtone as his phone rings, and rings, and rings.
The ringing goes just as uncared for. There is always something that demands Mikhael's attention, but Mikhael doesn't seem like the type to give it so easily. Not when it isn't in his own accord. The incessant buzz and default chime is put on hold long enough for him to capture a bottle of whiskey with a hand trailing smoke from the back of his fingers carrying the smoke, and he tips it up, chugs the whole thing down. Only when not a drop is left he chucks it over hi shoulder, doesn't care for it when it splinters across the marble floors - he's already moving again, shrugging out of his jacket with some lazy exchange of cigarette in his hands. Jacket left behind, his nudging kick opens the balcony door for him to slip outside and find some respite, at last. Clear air that he can taint with his poison stick - and only then he deigns to take his phone from his pocket, click the answer button at the last few rings and bring it up to his ear. "Mikhael." He informs, disinterest thick in his voice.
The initial answer, the moment Mikhael answers and responds, is a desperate, "WHY THE HELL DON'T YOU ANSWER!? Did you see the messages? It's important!" It's shrill, and it's a voice that Mikhael would recognize. It seems it's one of the interns in the Hand. His manners, likely forgotten in the moment due to whatever it is that is pressing on his mind that spurned the call. "It's some serious shit. I fucked up bad, man... and I don't know what to do about it."
On this end of the phone, at being met with the shrill voice, Mikhael erupts in a low chuckle in reply. He waits patiently until the end of their explanation, barebones as it is, while his arms laid on the guard rails of his balcony support his weight. The cigarette is tipped over, ash scattered down the building almost too idly. "Deep breaths, do that." The suggestion, somewhat sounding like a demand, comes low, calm, followed by a brief interlude so he can take a drag and let the smoke ride on his words. "I didn't look at anything, just spill it, it can't be that bad." As crimson eyes trail low, he pokes at his shirt, tries to scratch out some blood spattered on the surface near his abdomen.
There's silence on the other line for a moment. Mikhael's suggestion, or rather... demand, has the person on the other line complying. And then, there's the sound of a slow inhale, and a slow exhale. It lasts a few moments before he speaks again, and when he does it's a bit more measured. However, the stress in his voice is still unmitigated. "S-sorry. I fucked up. I got... faded at the masquerade and way too drunk and in one of those themed rooms downstairs, the gold one, I was with a few girls, you know? And I just wanted to impress them... I showed them what I could do." He explains, a bit shamefully. "I shifted in front of them... And it was cool or something at first but I didn't know they had cameras and one of them was a fucking reporter..."
"And I didn't even get laid because I drank too much and threw up..." The intern then adds, as if that's the most egregious offense.
The silence begets Mikhael to wait, he takes a few more drags of his cigarette, drains it practically half-way through until he's had just about enough. Ash and smoke are both sighed out, not in dejection or disappointed, though it could easily come off as such while he listens, still ever-patient, and his poison stick is aimed too casually to the downstairs balcony to be flicked down and made into someone elses problem. His own part of the silence in the midst of his intern's explanation ends with the addendum, the most egregious offense. He smirks, and chuckles again for it. "Do you know who the girl is? Give me a name, an address, workplace, whatever. I'll handle it." Easy enough deference to take the problem to his own hands, and the situation is made to be a lesson when he informs. "Your mistake is my mistake, and your actions reflect upon me. Keep that in mind." And after a beat, he adds, staring down at the back of his hand as if inspecting his fingers, the dried, crusted blood at the tip of each of them. Humored. "And next time, at least get fucking laid."
"I'm sorry," comes the reply on the other line, when the lesson is given. He's silent for another moment, and lets out an, "Mhm," in confirmation. "I know her. Her name is Julia Ashfield and she's out of Boston, but I think she's still in town. She showed me the video she took and she's saying... or threatening? I don't know... to write about it. I'm trying to be chill so she doesn't like... dip off, but she wanted me to meet her at the Antlers Hotel for more information. Normally I'd try to deal with it myself, but... she was saying shit about like, if something happens to her, then the video is set to posted after a while and, like, I know I was wearing hand symbols and.... yeah... She's room 304."
"You are a piece of work." Mikhael tells off, more humor evidently shown, but he works to rub his fingers together, flake off the dried blood away. "The antlers makes it a problem, but I wager we can get it bombed online if she posts anything. I'm more about showing her why it is a bad idea, what she did." His words come with a dismissal, Mikhael shoves away from the rails, turns inward back to the house and shuts the balcony door in his wake. "Don't drink in public again for a while until you learn your lesson." No more opportunity to speak is given to the intern when Mikhael ends the call, starts to move up to the kitchen, and dials another number, and the phone is set between his ear and his shoulder so he can run the sink and start washing his hands, start washing up. Whomever he's calling, it is distinctly not of the Hand - no, it is none other than his trusty sidekick, Borislav Pavlov, and the Russsian mob better pick up or its his neck on the plate next time. Should the elusively quiet Russian pick up, he'd inform curtly, imply, and quickly. "Julia Ashfield. Boston. Reporter. Narrow it down, you have thirty minutes, an hour tops if you want to piss me off. You know the deal, find a relative, a sister, brother, send me a picture when you do."
There's something on the other line as the intern tries to reply, but Mikhael has already disconnected the call. The next call is answered after a moment of ringing, and the information relayed easily enough. There's a confirmation on the other line before it disconnects. Borislav seems to make a promise that he'll have something for him within the time limit given. For now, it seems Julia is waiting at the Antlers for her 'appointment' with this intern to begin, discussing topics that would reflect quite poorly on quite a lot of individuals, especially the Hand.
The almost non-verbal reply isn't anything out of the norm, apparently, because me finishes up, flicks his hands into the sink and removes his phone to toss it into his pocket. He takes his time to wash his face, brush his hair with his hand, do the bare minimum to be presentable as he fixes his attire, and thus himself further, and he's off. The jacket he's discard on the sofa is picked up in his wake, tossed over his shoulders again, and he picks up his sunglasses as well to set them over his eyes. At least they aren't off-putting in this heat and at this hour, complete a look of normalcy when he eventually picks up his keys by the foyer and slips out of the penthouse without any further ado.
The elevator is taken as opposed to the stairs, and Mikhael makes a beeline straight for the alley in brisk, but formal pace to slip into the daylight and approach his trusty steed parked in the shadowy recess. The doors unlock with the proximity of his keys and he slips into the driver's seat - presses the start ignition, straps himself in. He drives out like a geriatric out the alley, and into the streets. The very same manner of driving ensues, his goal and destination clear.
By the time Mikhael freshens himself up, maneuvers to his vehicle, and drives off like a geriatric on a mission, it's been roughly about twenty minutes or so. And, another few minutes pass before he's sighting The Antlers in the distance. Borislav should be sending information over shortly, unless he's wanting to piss Mikhael off. Parking at the Antlers, when Mikhael is ready, is a short affair. It doesn't seem terribly busy today, but unsurprising considering it's a hotel in a small town.
Twenty minutes, a new record. Mikhael must be getting faster. After he's parked, he leaves the vehicle in short order and his brisk pace ensues yet again to carry him into the building without any wait whatsoever, no distraction or wandering of attention allowed. The reception shirks at the sight of him, perhaps in reaction to the way he's left their rooms, once or twice when he was stilly newly minted in town, which wasn't that long ago at all. Fresh in memory. He doesn't linger there either, makes for the stairs, straight up to the third floor, and a turn when he's up there. Unless he has been interrupted in search of room 304 to find it, he'd knock, and wait.
There wasn't any interruption for Mikhael. He moves with the benefit of someone who belongs there, and since he doesn't look lost, it was easy for the workers to assume he was either a tenant here, or a guest of a guest. He goes unobscured to the third floor. 304 is found with little effort, and as he knocks he can hear some scuffling on the other side. A muffled voice can be heard, female, on her way towards the door. "I was wondering how long you'd leave me waiting--" she says, before the door opens and she's surprised to see Mikhael there. "Oh!" She says, quietly. "You weren't who I was expecting. Can I help you?" She asks. The door does start to slightly close, but she leaves it open enough out of politeness. She's a pretty girl - blonde, with stark green eyes, and shorter than Mikhael which given his height isn't a surprise.
"No, but maybe you can help yourself." Mikhael relays in response to her quiet question with an all too polite smile. How genuine it is isn't laid bare, but in the same breath, he shoves a foot forward to trap the door from closing in any further. The laid-back attitude he held in his house is gone entirely, replaced by the warworn way he carries himself that heralds trepidation, an monstrous ken and a predatory gleam to everything that he ever does as one of his hands capture the edge of the door to shove it open for his intrusion.
Another step, and Mikhael is inside. "I am exactly who you should've expected." The door slams shut in his wake, creaks in its hinges - and red eyes veiled by the shades seek out the stark green of her gaze with clear intent to burrow his intimidation deep in the slate and marble fold of his features that loom over her, now. "We have business to discuss, do we not, Ms. Ashfield?"
It seems Julia wasn't expecting Mikhael to shove his way inside with his foot to prevent the door closing. Her hand tenses on the door, but her strength likely pales in comparison to his, and he's stepped inside easily enough. Julia, startled, takes several steps back, and it looks like where her feet have carried her is towards the desk where the phone is. It's clear she's going to make an attempt to reach for it, but it seems she's biding her time. "You need to leave." She says, and she tries to add an assertion in her voice, as if to suggest she's got some power over him that she already knows she doesn't. "I don't know you. We don't have anything to discuss. Get out before I call security."
A few moments later, Mikhael's phone begins to alert him - just one notification, ready for him to view.