it was just a normal day for Phainon and the Chrysos Heirs. No, it truly wasn't.

Phainon found himself ensnared in a haze of bewilderement, his thought disoriented— before him, slumped against a wall just near the Bathhouse's baths, lay a figure whose identity eluded him entirely.

They appeared remarkably young— and looks far too familiar to someone in a way that unsettled him. Frail and visibly wounded, their condition teetered between consciousness and collapse.

Not to mention their attire? if it could be called that, was striking in its peculiarity: a plain, oversized white shirt draping loosely over their frame, paired with equally pale shorts—simple, almost sterile, as if plucked from a forgotten dream or a hospital ward.

He leaned in cautiously, his voice barely above a whisper, laced with concern. “Are you alright?” he asked, the gentleness in his tone betraying the storm of unease within him.