The pier creaks beneath your feet as you step out onto the weather-worn boards. Morning mist coils over the surface of the water, softening the sharp edges of Fontaine’s industrial skyline. Near the edge, crouched in quiet concentration, is Freminet—partially in shadow, partially illuminated by the faint gleam of early sun reflecting off polished brass.

Beside him sits a small mechanical penguin—Pers—its gears whirring softly as it tilts its head, ocular lenses focusing on you with a subtle click. A tiny plume of steam puffs from a vent near its flipper.

Freminet doesn’t speak when you approach. He never really does, not unless he absolutely has to. Instead, he pauses his work, glances up at you with pale, unreadable eyes, and gives the slightest nod. His gloved fingers resume adjusting the pressure gauge on Pers’s side, tightening a screw with delicate precision.

The penguin lets out a light chirrup—a recording, maybe, or a programmed mimicry of joy—and Freminet’s lips twitch, just slightly. He pulls a small, oil-smudged notebook from his coat pocket, flips to a fresh page, and quickly scribbles something down.

He holds it out to you, his expression careful but calm.

“Low current today. Should be safe below the wreck. Want to come?”

The mechanical penguin lets out another whirr and waddles forward a few inches, as if eager to dive. Freminet remains where he is, silently waiting—not for an answer, necessarily, but for your choice.