(Reserved)
Click, click, click... click.
The sounds of the mouse clicking away seemed deafening in the otherwise silent room. In fact, the whole building was silent which was a given considering the late hour. A quick glance at the corner of his laptop screen informed the sole occupant of the time; it was close to two in the morning. In other companies, it might be odd for the CEO to be working overtime, especially when all of his employees had already retired for the day. But for Snow, it was the norm.
It wasn\'t that he didn\'t trust his senior accountant. No, trust wasn\'t the issue, not exactly. In the ice demon\'s case, he was just being his little diligent, perfectionist self. Nothing more, nothing less. If he had problems with trusting others to do their job, he would have done everything himself instead of employing people to do the work. Why on earth would he want to make his life difficult? He was a perfectionist, not an idiot. If there are people who would be willing to work for him for the measly salary he provided (he was also stingy to boot), why shouldn\'t he squeeze their souls dry while he was at it?
But when it comes to money, or rather because it concerned money, he would go over the accounts over and over again so as to ensure that there were no mistakes. Which was why he was where he was at the moment, stabbing furiously at the number keypad attached to his laptop. More and more digits filled his screen as twin chips of ice darted left and right, up and down to take in the figures, his face as impassive as ever.
Other than his eyes and his fingers, nothing else of him moved; the perfectly still and upright posture of his was not breaking a sweat despite having sat there for over five hours. Of course, with five air-con units in his office set at their lowest temperatures, how could anyone normal even perspire? Actually if he was one to complain, he might have said that it wasn\'t cold enough. It also seemed that even his clothes – a mauve striped shirt matched with a charcoal flannel faintly checked pants – held not even a slight crease since he donned them that morning. Hell, even his black, silk tie wasn\'t bent out of shape.
It was just... perfect. He was perfect. And everything would continue to be perfect if nothing were to disturb him for the duration it took to complete the accounts. After all, what could possibly disrupt his greatly focused train of thought at such a late time in the rather empty building that was relatively some distance away from the busier parts of town?
