pity does not get you aid. admiration at your refusal to give in does.
((@constellationcursed! Maybe during her STARS era?))
The embroidered name tag on his jumpsuit reads 'Petrov' in plain script. A quiet, reliable feature around numerous Umbrella facilities. Moving around with a sort of anonymous shroud. But today, he's been assigned by those on high to attend an incident at the police station: discretion advised.
It's been several days now that Petrov has come, a last effort where previous janitors had failed. He was making progress, finally, at combating the mystery smell coming from an office, way back in the neglected and forgotten wings of the palatial station. Apparently, his efforts had garnered some positive attention.
"Tell me you did not come all this way to help." A (jarringly, perhaps) heavy Russian accent, muted beneath a respirator. He appreciated the poetry of her words, but he had secrets to protect, and that room was not yet wiped clean of evidence of Umbrella's darkest side. (Subterfuge has never been his preference, yet the task always has a habit of seeking him out. When an employer, or government, or any entity of power makes a demand, there's little choice but to oblige. And oblige Petrov has.)
So, he steps out into the hall, closing the door to the office behind him. "You know, your words have more rhythm than usual for ... officer?" Green eyes making a point to look for her badge.