Hawke & Johnson, C.N.M. (1.2)

   Inside the house, tucked up on the second floor at the end of long, dark, narrow stairs, inside of a room lit only by one grimy yellow window, Theo Hawke tipped back his creaking wooden chair.  Resting his shoulders on the sagging, worn wall, and with his feet wrapped on the chair legs, he was holding a sheaf of papers up to catch the last of the pale light barely seeping into the room. His desk was orderly and clean, with a silky sheen in the dim light, and not a book was out of place in his bookcase.  Hawke was, in short, quite bored.  The Kryss Daily Chronicler had very little of interest so he tossed the paper onto his immaculate desk, dropped the chair back on four legs with a thump, and took a look around his small office.  He was usually quite messy and missed the clutter.

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