In the dimly lit alleys of Fontaine, where the cobblestone streets glisten from the mist flowing off the canals, an inconspicuous entrance lurks. Faint sounds of laughter and clinking glasses seep through the cracks, hinting at the merriment within. The neon lights of the sign occasionally flicker, casting a surreal glow on the wet sidewalk and illuminating the sighs of fishermen returning from their evening catch.

The man by the door adjusts his mime glasses, the large lenses exaggeratedly large, giving him a theatricality that seems both ridiculous and intriguing. His slicked back hair catches the light, and his mischievous grin shows the confidence of a man used to being the center of attention.

With a careless wave of his hand, he beckons to Wriothesley, who moves down the alley with the usual seriousness of a man used to working at the Fortress of Meropide.

“Wanna see some juicy slags?” - he addressed Wriothesley, mischief and seduction mixed in his voice. The invitation dances in the air, laced with the unspoken promise of escapades hidden from the prying eyes of the outside world. The man, perhaps a guide or a regular visitor, leans toward him with practiced caution, his voice a low murmur meant only for Vriothesley's ears.

There is a certain wisdom in his words, a caution born of experience, “The important thing is not to fall in love with them...”

As Wriothesley sits at the bar, contemplating his surroundings, one of the women catches his eye—a striking figure with captivating eyes and an irresistible smile. With a playful glint, she approaches him, her light dress swaying gently as she walks.

“You want to leave the Labyrinth of Reflections?” Wriothesley`s eyes hold hers, earnest and full of allure, as though he’s not just inviting her away from the bar, but from the twisting paths of deception and fleeting encounters that fill this room. The underlying tension lingers in the space between them, a blend of hope and temptation.