Sunday's speech never faltered, his clothing never rippled, his expression seldom betrayed him. However, maintaining a facade of perfection and order proved to be daunting. He was the beau idéal, the definition of flawlessness—now reduced to a jumbled mess.

He scanned through stacks of pages bearing suspects' names for the hundredth time. The eyes that used to shine like pools of molten gold were now shrouded by an ominous shade of blue. The valuable information slipped through his grasp no matter how tightly he clung to the papers. His lips twitched at the edges. It felt as though his very skin was tightening around him, as though his ribcage had dwindled, his breaths becoming shallower in the process. He despised the shadows that appeared to dance and writhe, creating odd shapes that played tricks on his weary psyche. He despised the spiralling tornado that was his mind.

He was aware of The Dreammaster's displeasure with his recent activities, and the mere notion of it sickened him to his core. Even if it was only to investigate the circumstances of Robin's passing, he knew that straying from their plan was unfavorable for the future of Penacony.

His hand rose involuntarily, fingers falling into the familiar rhythm of plucking feathers from the wings behind his ears. This odious habit of his irked him to no end, but it simultaneously offered him a faux sense of relief.

He nearly leapt from his chair when the door swung open. Eventually, his eyes settled on his guest— the Bloodhound. His prudent gaze lingered on the other's features, and that's when the realisation dawned on him. By a miracle, he managed to rein in his emotions.

"Gallagher. It's you—you have been wearing the skin and features of members of The Family as if it were cheap leather." His voice was dripping with barely contained bitterness and slight anguish. Gallagher must somehow be related to the current situation, pulling the strings in the Watchmaker's stead.

"..Why?" One word. One question. One plea.

"Why her?"