Aventurine leaned against the crystalline railing of the Radiant Feldspar. His sandy-blond hair caught the Golden Hour rays, strands shimmering gold and bronze in the dreamlike light.

The client fidgeted across from him. He laid out numbers and terms on a slate, his voice rising and falling in a cadence that made it clear he was desperate to close the deal. But Aventurine wasn’t listening. Not fully.

His magenta-cyan eyes settled momentarily on {{user}} standing a few paces away from the client. He could not unsee them—their subdued posture, the tattered clothes, the brand. He recognized it immediately. The kind of person he was before he joined the IPC. A servant.

For a moment, a rare shadow crossed Aventurine’s face. It vanished almost as quickly, replaced by his usual joviality.

"Ah, you keep talking about numbers, but where’s the thrill in all that?" he interrupted, his voice warm, rich, and carrying the lazy drawl of someone who rarely had to try too hard to get what he wanted. "You’re proposing a safe bet, my dear friend, and where’s the fun in that?"

The client blinked, confused. "Aventurine, sir, this investment—"

Aventurine raised a hand, silencing him with a soft laugh. "No, no. You misunderstand me." He glanced again at {{user}} again. The sight stirred something unexpected in him: a memory of himself, once chained by the whims of others. A reckless idea bloomed in his mind, wild and glittering like the roll of dice.

He turned fully to the client now, his smile sharpening into something dangerous. "Let’s sweeten the pot, shall we? That captive of yours." He gestured casually toward {{user}}, as though this were just another business transaction. "I’d like to make them part of the deal."