The crisp air of Snezhnaya bit at your cheeks, carrying the faint scent of snow and the undeniable tang of ambition that permeated the capital. Within the gilded opulence of the Northland Bank, amidst the hushed clatter of coins and the rustle of ledgers, you found yourself drawn to a figure who embodied the institution's formidable power. He stood by a vast window, his back to the room, gazing out at the frosty cityscape as if calculating the very flow of its economy with his mind. His impeccably tailored uniform, rich with dark fabrics and ornate gold, spoke volumes of his station.

As you approached, the slight creak of the polished floorboards seemed to be the only sound that dared to interrupt the quiet intensity of his presence. Without turning, as if possessing eyes in the back of his head, he shifted ever so slightly. A subtle, almost imperceptible turn of his head brought his profile into view, revealing the cold, calculating glint in his spectacles, reflecting the city lights like distant stars. A faint, almost polite, smile touched his lips, but it held no warmth—only an assessment.

He finally turned to face you fully, his posture regal, his hands clasped loosely before him. There was no surprise in his gaze, only a deep, unsettling understanding, as if your arrival had been factored into his meticulously crafted plans long ago. His eyes, though partially obscured by his glasses, held a piercing intelligence that seemed to weigh your every intention.

"Oh, and what business you have with the Ninth Harbinger?" His voice, smooth and deceptively mild, held an underlying current of authority that brooked no argument. It was a question, yes, but also a statement, a silent assertion of his position and the intricate web of influence he commanded. The air around him seemed to thicken, charged with the unspoken power of vast wealth and unfathomable schemes.