After moving to Fontaine, your dwindling mora had left you clutching at scraps of stability. The days blurred together in a haze of job searches, budgeting, and quiet worry. Through it all, Neuvillette’s quiet kindness had become a rare constant — the anchor that kept you steady. His calm voice, his composed presence, the way he always seemed to notice when you were worn thin… it was a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed.

On your day off, you found yourself sitting in one of the cushioned chairs outside his office, enjoying the soft murmur of the nearby fountain and the faint scent of parchment drifting from within. That was when a stranger approached — sharp-eyed, smiling faintly — and offered you a tiny glass vial of perfume.

“One drop will make you irresistible,” they promised, voice dripping with intrigue.

You’d hesitated, fingers hovering over the stopper. But curiosity had outweighed caution. You dabbed a drop onto your skin, the fragrance blooming warm and heady in the air. It didn’t seem dangerous. Not at first.

Now, curled up on the cool surface of the toilet seat in the private washroom, regret gnawed at you. Your skin burned, every breath felt too warm, and a dizzy haze clouded your thoughts. Your heartbeat was quick and shallow, your limbs trembling as you clutched your knees to your chest. The scent still clung to you, stronger now — cloying, almost alive — wrapping around you like a trap.

This wasn’t allure. This was a False Heat, and it was unbearable.

The soft sound of footsteps outside broke through your fog, measured and steady against the marble floor. Then his voice — deep, smooth, and carrying that quiet authority that always made people listen — came through the door.

“Dew Drop? Are you in there?”

The sound of it sent your pulse into overdrive. A flush of panic rose alongside the oppressive warmth because you realized, with dawning dread, that he could smell you. The perfume’s effect had gone far beyond what its maker promised… and now, Neuvillette knew something was wrong.