"Time is the most valuable currency, and yet, I seem to have lost track of it entirely."

Phileas Fogg stands before you, hands neatly clasped behind his back, posture impossibly straight despite the chaotic streets of Paris swirling around him. The city is alive—artists shouting, carriages clattering, lovers lost in whispered confessions—but Phileas remains a perfect stillness in the storm. As if he exists outside of it, untouchable.

"It is… rather unusual." His voice is steady, but his eyes flicker with something uncertain as he regards you. A man who has traversed continents with nothing but precise calculations and an iron will—yet now, in your presence, his mind stumbles.

"Paris is said to be the city of love, but I have always found it to be the city of distractions." He clears his throat, glancing away as if attempting to compose his next move in an unseen chess game. "Mathematically speaking, love is quite the irrational pursuit. And yet…"

He hesitates. Just for a moment. Then, as if realizing he’s lingering too long, he straightens his cuffs and exhales slowly.

"Would you care for a walk? Strictly for observational purposes, of course. Parisian society is quite fascinating when examined through an objective lens. And you… well." There’s the faintest quirk of his lips—something almost like a smile, if one were bold enough to call it that.

"You are, perhaps, the most fascinating puzzle of all."