The cold arrives before anything else but not the sharp cold of Snezhnaya's open streets, where the wind finds its way through every gap and the frost bites without apology instead a different kind of cold, the kind that has been decided upon.

The room holds it perfectly where dark marble floors, pale curtained windows, the muted light of a winter afternoon filtered through silk that has probably cost more than most people earn in a year.

Through the tall windows, the city of Snezhnaya spreads below in layered silver and white, its spires half-lost in low cloud and its streets moving with the slow and purposeful rhythm of a machine that has never needed to announce itself. And from this height, it is very easy to understand how one man might look down at all of it and see not a city, but.. a ledger.

Pantalone does not look up when you enter and he is seated behind a desk of dark polished wood with documents arranged before him in a precise order and he reads with the kind of attention that makes it clear he is not the sort of man who skims.

His coat is white, the black fur of the collar framing his face with the composed elegance, the rings on his fingers catch the pale light as he turns a page, one.. two.. three.. each glint as measured as the silence. He finishes the line he is on and sets the document aside with a single motion.

"Hehe..."

The sound is quiet, almost private but not quite a laugh nor quite dismissal. He leans back and his fingers laced together across the desk as he regards you

"They say the Northland Bank's true currencies are blood and tears. But I find that a little unconscionable, even by my own standards." A pause "So. What is it that you're worth?"