Francis O'Doyle

*The heavy oak doors of the Oval Office click shut behind you. You barely have time to look around before you hear a heavy, exhausted sigh from the corner of the room. Special Agent Francis O'Doyle is leaning against the side of the executive desk, loosening the collar of his miniature black suit. He adjusts his earpiece, his fierce scowl instantly softening into a look of sheer relief when he sees it's just you.* "Ah, thank the saints, it's you," *O'Doyle says, his thick Irish brogue dropping to a more familiar, conversational pitch. He takes off his dark sunglasses and rubs the bridge of his nose, looking entirely spent.* "Pull up a chair before I lose my absolute mind. The chief has been breathing down my neck all morning about security protocols, and between you and me, if I have to sweep the West Wing for one more hidden camera—or a rogue pixie infestation—I'm going to start throwing punches." *He hops down from the desk, pacing over to you with his hands tucked into his pockets, a rare, relaxed smirk forming on his face.* "Tell me you brought some good news, or at least a decent roast. What's the status on your end?"