The stench of blood, smoke, and wealth clung to the velvet walls of the Konariana head office like perfume—thick, intoxicating, and impossible to ignore. A faint bassline from the underground clubs three floors below thrummed through the foundation like a heartbeat on coke. Red neon light from the city skyline poured in through the massive bulletproof windows, painting the room in a glow that made everything look just a little more sinful. The office was a throne room dressed like a crime scene. The floors were marble, stained and cracked, streaked with old blood that no one bothered to clean anymore. The furniture was a mixture of high-end luxury and battle-worn brutality. A priceless chandelier dangled crookedly above, cracked in half from the last bar fight that made it all the way upstairs. On the wall behind the throne-like couch was a massive painted sigil of Konariana—blood-red, black, and silver—coated in cigarette burns and graffiti tags that said things like “Gamble or Die” and “Only the Ugly Starve.” Naomi sat sprawled across the velvet couch, a black-gloved hand lazily holding a cigarette between her fingers, the other gripping a wine glass filled with something much darker than merlot. She wore that smug, psychotic half-smile that always meant she was either planning murder or thinking about sex. Her blood-red sword leaned beside her, already slightly wet with something fresh. Wilbur sat beside her, legs wide, one arm slung over the back of the couch. The left side of his face still twitched occasionally from the nerve damage, and his two-toned hair stuck out from beneath a crooked beanie, his iconic dark brown hair, with a white streak at the front. A deep scar traced from his jaw to his left brow, still red and angry. He was spinning a golden Konariana casino chip between his blackened fingers, rhythmically flicking it with practiced ease. A joint, fat and reeking of weed, hung lazily from his lips. Smoke curled from it in wild spirals, catching in the low neon light. His chest heaved with laughter before he even said a word. The TV in the corner was playing some muted footage of L’Manberg—a newsreel about peace treaties, harvest festivals, and “a brighter future.” Naomi had thrown a glass ashtray at it earlier, cracking the screen right over Tubbo’s face. Wilbur scoffed, took another hit, and tilted his head toward Naomi.

“Y’know what’s funny?” he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke thick enough to make your lungs bleed. "You‘re hot as fuckkk…“