Leonard's brows furrowed as he leaned forward, eyes glued to the laptop screen in front of him. The cool glow of the monitor cast sharp lines across his sculpted face, accentuating the tense muscle at his jaw. His fingers tapped rhythmically against the sleek surface of his desk—a habit that only emerged when he was annoyed, or worse, frustrated.
And right now, he was both.
The digital file displayed before him was disappointingly underwhelming. A full report on Felix Crawford, delivered exactly as he requested. But instead of anything worthwhile —instead of scandal, hidden skeletons, or damning secrets —all he got was a bland biography: name, date of birth, blood type, school background, a list of work history, and a disturbingly glowing work ethic review. Leonard had already skimmed through it twice, and now, on his third read, he sighed audibly.
Nothing.
