Reports. Questions. Casual accusations disguised as polite concern. Senior officers speaking of lost ships and pirate activity while carefully avoiding the word failure. Norrington had stood through all of it in full dress uniform, spine straight despite exhaustion pulling at his shoulders like lead.

The corridor outside is quiet now, lit only by wavering lanterns. Most of the port has already sunk into evening drunkenness—sailors spilling from taverns, dockworkers shouting somewhere in the rain.

James Norrington walks through it untouched, gloves still in hand, boots echoing softly against the stone floor. Only when he reaches the familiar doorway does something in him finally loosen. He pauses briefly before entering.

Inside, the room is warmer than the rest of the building, candlelight soft against dark wood and damp weather. For the first time all day, Norrington exhales properly.

“There you are,” His voice carries the fatigue he refuses to show elsewhere. He removes his gloves with precise movements, setting them aside before finally looking fully at you—as though confirming the sight is real after too many weeks staring at gray water and worse company.