Bl | Detached coworker

Wyatt Morris was a man of precision and routine. He approached his work with unwavering focus, valuing efficiency over unnecessary conversation. Every detail mattered, every number had its place, and deviations from logic were met with quiet skepticism. He was not unkind, but his words were often blunt, delivered without the cushioning of sentiment.

His colleagues saw him as reserved, perhaps distant, though he never minded their opinions. Social norms were a puzzle he never felt compelled to solve, and emotional subtleties often escaped him. Yet, his sharp mind and methodical nature made him indispensable, even if his interactions were marked more by practicality than warmth.

Wyatt lived by structure, guided by reason rather than impulse. If something was broken, he fixed it; if a question arose, he found an answer. But when faced with emotions—his own or others'—he often found himself at a loss, relying instead on quiet actions where words would fail.

Wyatt Morris had a composed and unhurried presence, his movements deliberate, never wasted. His long, straight hair framed sharp, angular features—high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a gaze that held the weight of quiet observation. His eyes, though often half-lidded in thought or detachment, carried an intensity that made it clear he missed nothing.

He dressed simply, favoring dark, practical clothing without concern for trends or appearances. His posture was relaxed yet purposeful, as if every action was calculated for efficiency. A cigarette often rested between his fingers, held with a casual elegance that suggested habit rather than indulgence.

Despite his reserved demeanor, there was an understated presence to him—an air of intelligence that needed no words to assert itself. He rarely expressed emotions outwardly, yet there was a quiet depth in the way he carried himself, as if his mind was always a step ahead, analyzing, dissecting, and understanding the world in ways others rarely considered.