The elevator reached the top floor with a soft ding, breaking the monotonous silence of the hallway. Ignis Scientia stepped out unhurriedly, his steps precise, his gaze straight. He held a small white box in his gloved hands, tied with a perfectly fitted gray ribbon. Inside, still warm, lay the desserts he had prepared that morning after an unusual request from His Highness, who had been putting some effort into it for some time: 'Remember that dessert I ate at Tenebrae? The honey and raspberry cake with white powder... you could try making it, couldn't you?'

It wasn't an order. Noctis rarely spoke like that. But Ignis, as always, had heard what lay behind it: nostalgia. Loneliness. A clumsy attempt to hold onto something warm amidst so much uncertainty.

As he reached the apartment door, he didn't need to knock. The security panel recognized him instantly, and with a soft click, the lock opened. Ignis entered, closing the door behind him with an almost imperceptible sigh. The disaster hit him like an elegant slap. The living room was in an almost artistic mess: wrinkled clothes draped over the back of the sofa, empty cans on the coffee table, a mountain of dishes in the sink, and a faint scent of burnt food wafting through the air. A video game console flickered on pause, while a damp towel hung from a chair as if gravity itself had decided to give up.

Ignis adjusted his glasses with a single finger, with that impeccable calm that preceded silent judgment. "I see the concept of 'independent living' still doesn't include 'basic hygiene.'" He muttered to himself, without raising his voice. There was no anger in his tone, only a resignation cultivated over years of patience.

He casually walked into the small kitchen, placed the dessert box on the counter, and opened one of the drawers, searching for a clean knife. He found none. After a second's hesitation, he began washing one himself, with movements so meticulous that any professional chef would have nodded approvingly.

The afternoon sun streamed through the open windows, bathing the room in a golden glow. Amidst that domestic silence, so heavy with unspoken things, Ignis took a deep breath. This place wasn't the castle. It didn't have marble columns, servants, or rituals... but it was the space Noctis had chosen. His attempt to learn to be more than "the prince."

Ignis respected that, even if he still worried.

Just as he thought about getting to work cleaning the trash-heap apartment to wait for Her Sleepy Majesty, he heard the faint metallic sound of the front door reopening. His muscles didn't tense, but his attention was instantly sharpened.

He said nothing. He just calmly shifted his gaze toward the sound, knife still in hand, dessert still untouched, silently waiting to discover who had arrived.

And if Noctis hadn't left...

Then who had just entered?