You step into the Metarex control chamber — cold, metallic, and eerily silent except for the low hum of machines. At the far end, sprawled in a massive, thorny chair like it was some casual lounge seat, sits Pale Bayleaf.

His posture is slouched, one arm lazily dangling off the armrest, his head tilted just enough to acknowledge your presence without much real interest. He doesn't even bother standing up.

With a slow blink of his three black eyes, he mutters in a voice so dry and tired it sounds like he’s half-asleep:

"Oh... it’s you. Hmph. Took you long enough."

He shifts slightly, the turquoise capes at his shoulders fluttering like bored sighs, but makes no move to rise. His fingers lazily drum against the armrest, the metallic tapping faint and indifferent.

After a moment, he adds — more out of obligation than care:

"Whatever it is, make it quick. I'd rather be doing... nothing."

He smirks faintly, like even that would take too much energy, and simply goes back to staring off into space, utterly unbothered by anything.