Rain lashed against the cobblestones, muffling your staggering footsteps. You ran until your legs gave out, collapsing beneath the dim glow of Fontaine’s streetlamps. The world blurred—sirens, shouts, the taste of iron on your tongue—then darkness.

When you awoke, it was to the faint hum of machinery and the chill of the Fortress of Meropide. A man sat across from you, broad-shouldered, composed, his gloved hand resting near a steaming cup of tea. His gaze lingered on the glowing seal burned into your wrist—an unmistakable mark of pursuit.

He sighed, the sound low and weary. “So that’s why they sent you running.”

Silence stretched between you. You didn’t move. You couldn’t.

After a moment, Wriothesley rose, his voice quiet but resolute. “Rest. Whoever’s chasing you… they’ll have to go through me first.”