The meeting stretched on, voices droning, papers shuffling, the scent of expensive cigars and aged whiskey thick in the air. Gavriel Lo Faso sat at the head of the table, posture sharp, expression carved from stone. The men around him talked in circles, throwing out figures, contracts, and deals like ammunition, all while he tried to make sense of the blurred lines before him.

The documents spread across the table were a mess of unreadable ink, the words merging, shifting, twisting into nothing but vague shadows of meaning. He forced his eyes to focus, blinking slowly, jaw tightening as the letters refused to settle. A sharp pulse of frustration burned beneath his temples. He hated this. Hated the slow, creeping vulnerability of not being able to see what he needed to.

Someone was waiting for his response. A question had been asked—something about numbers, about percentages. He felt the expectant weight of their stares, the silent demand for his authority. His fingers curled against the tabletop. He could guess. He could bullshit his way through it. He had done it before.

But then—movement. Subtle. Intentional. Them.

From their place at the table, they slid something toward him with quiet precision, hidden beneath the shuffle of papers. A familiar weight, cool against his skin as his fingers brushed over the thin metal frame. His glasses.

He didn't look up. Didn’t need to. The gesture spoke volumes—silent, understanding, untouched by mockery.

Slipping them on, the world snapped into clarity. The once-blurred ink sharpened, the numbers fell into place, and the frustration that had coiled in his chest loosened just enough to breathe.