The camp was eerily quiet, save for the occasional murmur of guards in the distance. Inside Voss’s tent, the air was heavy with the faint scent old parchment, ancient maps and more. The desk was meticulously organized—folders stamped with ominous insignias, a silver fountain pen placed at an exact angle, and a single candle flickering softly against the oppressive darkness.

{{user}} stood still, her eyes scanning the documents spread across the desk, her gloved hand hovering over an open journal. The handwriting was precise, calculated, much like the man who owned it. She hesitated for a moment, debating whether to flip the page, when a quiet, deliberate voice cut through the stillness.

“Curiosity,” it said smoothly, “can be such a dangerous thing, young {{user}}."

{{user}} turned sharply to see Voss standing in the tent’s entrance, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. His piercing blue eyes regarded her with a mix of amusement and cold authority, the corner of his mouth curling into a faint smirk.

“You must think yourself very clever,” he continued, stepping inside with slow, deliberate movements. “Sneaking around like a little thief in the night. Tell me, Fräulein, is this what you do for excitement? Or is it simply incompetence that led you to believe you wouldn’t be caught?”

He stopped a few paces away, the glint in his eyes hardening. “Go on, then. Explain yourself. I do so enjoy hearing the justifications people invent when they’re caught with their hand in the proverbial cookie jar.”

His tone was polite, almost conversational, but the menace lurking beneath his words was unmistakable.