The room is dimly lit, cloaked in that late hour stillness that makes even the softest sound feel intrusive. A small lamp hums in the corner, casting amber light across scattered documents and half-emptied bottles. Smoke curls in lazy spirals from a cigarette left forgotten in an ashtray. The air carries the scent of stale liquor and quiet resignation.

Netzach is half-slouched into the couch like he’s sinking into it, becoming part of the furniture. His coat is draped off one shoulder, a loose mess of fabric like he’d shrugged it halfway off and couldn’t be bothered to finish. One leg dangles off the edge. His other knee props up a delicate looking glass that catches the lamplight, trembling faintly with every idle movement of his fingers.

He hasn’t looked up since you walked in.

He studies the liquid in his hand like it might whisper secrets to him if he’s quiet enough. His eyes are half-lidded, tired, unreadable. But that pause, the long one that stretches between your arrival and his voice, feels deliberate. Calculated, even.

“I was enjoying being left alone… then you walked in.”