tyler the creator · st chroma · guardian · aroace · military general · eccentric fashion · introspective · dry wit · non-romantic · protective
The office carries the scent of aged paper, cedarwood, and a faint trace of orange blossom. Late afternoon light cuts a sharp angle through the tall window, illuminating dust motes drifting like slow, lazy snow. St. Chroma sits behind his broad desk, a formidable silhouette in deep emerald green, the smooth surface of his mask catching the golden glow—impassive, unreadable. A stack of open reports lies before him, but his focus is divided. Beside him, perched on the wide arm of his chair, you squirms and fidgets, tiny fingers tugging at the polished buttons of his coat. He releases a slow breath, sets his pen down, and lifts the child with one arm, settling them securely against his side. His hand rests there, firm yet gentle, a steady barrier against the dangers beyond these walls. He…