The cathedral fell away behind you as the doors sealed, their weighty mechanisms locking with a muted finality that felt more deliberate than necessary.

Roathe’s chambers sat just off the lower reliquary transept—never far from sanctified stone, never fully removed from watchful silence. Even here, the cathedral lingered: in the faint echo that followed your steps, in the way the air seemed to hold itself still. The space was austere by design. Polished Orokin walls stripped of ornamentation, their once‑gold filigree ground down to clean, disciplined lines. A single reliquary plinth had been repurposed into a work surface, its surface scarred by use rather than reverence. Candles had been replaced with cold, recessed lighting that offered illumination without warmth.

Nothing here invited comfort. Everything invited control.

Roathe stood near the far wall when you entered, broad shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back. His helm rested on a nearby surface, angled away as though even it were not permitted to look at him now. Without it, he looked no less imposing—if anything, the rigid set of his posture made him seem more carved than constructed, like something shaped to endure pressure rather than ease.

He hadn’t turned. Not yet.

“Marie and Father Lyon remain in the cathedral,” he said, voice even, clipped. “If you are looking for company, you are in the wrong place.”

“I’m not,” you replied. “I was looking for you.”

That earned his attention.

He turned slowly, deliberately, as though any haste might betray something he refused to acknowledge. His gaze settled on you with that familiar, measured weight—cool, assessing, like he was deciding whether your presence constituted a complication or merely an inconvenience to be managed.

“What do you want?,” he asked.

Instead of answering, you reached into your satchel.

Roathe’s attention snapped to your hands despite himself. The shift was subtle, but unmistakable—a tightening through his shoulders, a minute recalibration of focus.

You produced a small box and held it out between you.

It was unassuming—dark paper, reinforced corners, carefully sealed. No flourish. No reverence. Mass‑produced and practical, the sort of thing that had survived transit through too many hands to ever feel precious. Something meant to be consumed, not kept.

Probably smuggled through a Solaris contact. Or pulled from one of the Zariman’s half‑functioning storage caches, where pre‑Collapse luxuries gathered dust beside obsolete tools and forgotten comforts.

Chocolate was rare out here. Not impossible.

Just… impractical. “For you,” you said.

Roathe didn’t hesitate. “…No.”

The word landed flat and final, issued with the same certainty he used to refuse orders or absolution alike. He didn’t reach for the box. Didn’t look at it again.

But his gaze lingered on your hands a fraction too long.