The emotional weight of the clutter in front of him loomed heavy on Sebastian Moran's shoulders. He'd been under strict orders that should anything ever happen to his boss, it was up to him to go clean Jim's flat. The bastard hadn't even left him a key, so he'd had to jimmy the door open, but that was more of an inconvenience than an actual problem.
He sighed to himself, rubbing the back of his neck as he shredded years' worth of documents, crushed a drawer's worth of USB keys under the heavy heel of his boot, rendering them useless.
The boss didn't drink much, claimed it clouded his mind, but he had a well-stocked bar for intimidating guests. Sebastian debated drowning his black mood, but ignored them, heading for Jim's bedroom, where the closet loomed open before him.
The suits. The fucking suits. Jim insisted on being impeccably dressed whenever possible. Sebastian remembered seeing the photos of him disguised as a tourist in the newspapers, and thinking he looked wrong in that hideous cap. These tailored garments, these were his boss. He ran his hands over the silk and wool blends, then scowled. He was getting soft, getting sentimental. Jim would have hated that. Angrily, he pulled them all off their hangers, dumping them at his feet in messy bundles.