What do you guys think I'm more adept with? I prefer third person, as it's more flexible. Also I've been told that first person writing exacerbates already verbose prose.. Which is what I write >.>

[THIRD PERSON]

Jayden sat at his desk, a rustic and mahogany painted block. Peering outside of the window, he breathed with the pitter-patter of heavy rains. He sighed a deep sigh, leaning back in the swivel chair, as he discouraged fatigue from his eyes with the heels of his hands. He couldn’t sleep, for if he dared he’d subject himself to the nightmares of times past. He was average sized for an eighteen year old, his thick rimmed glasses cracked and chipped in their frames, his suit torn and mended with patches of varying color. He was a genius, a prodigy of sorts which explained his sheepish and asocial conduct, his intelligence arguably his only redeeming quality. He was generic in fact, a contrast to the eccentric folks he fraternized with. He ran his fingers through his disheveled brown hair, that wasn’t a fashion statement as much as it was his own dislike for personal hygiene, and lifted his feet onto his desk. The door flung open. Ghost, a massive man, not in the sense of a bodybuilder but more similar to a bear walking on his hindlegs, walked in. His arms bulged through the field-tested sleeves of a dark green tee shirt. His neck draped with a frayed shemagh, a bloody hand print underneath, as if literally strangled by a victim of his, from the grave. He stood underneath the flickering office lights, with his hands by his sides, motionlessly. Jayden rose to his feet with a quizzical look, “Ghost?” he raised an eyebrow. “We finished the job early, let’s get some food,” the large man motioned towards the door with a nod.

[FIRST PERSON]    

Working at TelPro was draining, and filled with uninspiring tedium. It’d been six months since the incident at Utopia, yet the staff all still treated me with terrorizing scrutiny. Not that I minded, most of the types McAffery employed weren’t the sort you could leisurely converse with anyways. I peered out of the window from my desk, the prison yard that served as the market was completely empty. Sounds of inebriation and debauchery emanating from the cafeteria, served as the only audible distractions during a cold, dark night. Ghost popped his head into my office, “coming to dinner?” “Why do you never knock?” I looked down at the papers sprawled on my desk. He closed the door and knocked, popping his head in once again “dinner?” “Yeah,” I replied, getting up and twirling my jacket on. “I heard we’re eating some herb soup tonight,” I said, making my way to the door, “you should be happy, being a rabbit and everything.” “I’m a vegetarian, but I never said I liked vegetables mate. My pop had to force me to eat my broccoli when I was a lad.” I closed the door behind me, locking it and beginning down the long hallway to the cafeteria. Ghost juggled his office keys, staggering backwards to catch them. “Have you talked to Fletcher today?” I asked, looking down as we continued down the well lit hallway.