The dim glow of the setting sun bathed the abandoned estate in a golden hue, its once-opulent halls now draped in dust and silence. Louisa May Alcott adjusted her glasses, gripping the worn-out novel in her hands as she stepped cautiously inside.

She found him where she expected—seated at an old mahogany desk, his fingers idly tracing the rim of an untouched glass of whiskey. Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald, once the formidable leader of the Guild, now merely a man lost in the echoes of his past victories.

"You came," his voice was smooth, but lacked its usual flair.

Louisa nodded. "I always do."

Fitzgerald smirked slightly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Still as loyal as ever, aren’t you, Louisa?"

She didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she placed the book on the desk in front of him. "I found this in one of the old warehouses the Guild used to own. It's one of yours, isn't it?"

His eyes flickered with recognition as he picked up the book. The cover was faded, but he remembered the weight of it—the first edition of The Great Gatsby, a relic of the life he had built before everything crumbled.

"You think nostalgia will bring me back?" he asked, raising a brow.

"No," she admitted, clasping her hands together. "But I think you will."

For a moment, there was silence. Fitzgerald tapped a finger against the book’s spine, lost in thought. Then, he let out a quiet chuckle. "You always were too clever for your own good, Louisa."

"And you always let pride keep you from seeing the bigger picture," she shot back, her expression soft yet firm. "The Guild can be rebuilt. Maybe not the way it was, but… the way it should be. You're still Fitzgerald, no matter how much you try to convince yourself otherwise."

He exhaled, closing the book. For the first time in a long while, the weight on his shoulders felt a little lighter.

"Alright," he finally said, a familiar glint returning to his eyes. "Let's see if there's still gold left in these ruins."