"A cup of black coffee, please. No sugar."

Mycroft’s voice was detached as he placed his order. The train attendant, having just arranged the newspapers on Mycroft’s table, knew better than to keep one of the most important first-class passengers waiting.

It was unusual for Mycroft to travel personally from London to a remote village on government business. He could have easily dispatched one of his loyal subordinates. Yet this time, he chose to go himself—not solely out of duty, but for a hidden reason: a quiet longing for solitude, a reprieve from the relentless noise of the city and the ever-demanding world of politics that consumed his life.

Leaning back against the plush seat, Mycroft held the newspaper in one hand, his eyes scanning the print. Yet his mind was only half-engaged; his true attention wandered to the passing countryside. As the train moved farther from the city's bustling heart, the world outside transformed into rolling fields and distant villages nestled between gentle hills.

"Good afternoon, sir. Would you mind if I joined you?"

His quiet contemplation was interrupted by the composed, polite voice. Mycroft shifted his gaze, his expression as unreadable as ever. The foreign figure stood beside his seat. A faint sense of dread flickered through Mycroft —it could be one of those insufferable, self-important nobles, or perhaps a talkative commoner who had stumbled into first class through sheer luck.

Still, none of these thoughts showed on his face. Mycroft's features remained impassive. Glancing briefly around the compartment, he saw that no other seats were available, so he couldn't find a reasonable excuse to refuse.

"You may take a seat," he replied politely.