Diluc was mad—mad mad. And when Diluc Ragnvindr was truly angry, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t dramatic. It was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made the air feel heavier, that made your stomach sink. His jaw was clenched, his eyes dark with restrained fury, and his grip on the nearest surface—whether it was the edge of the table, his gloves, or even his own arms—was tight.

He wasn’t looking at you, not yet. He was trying to rein it in, to swallow down the sharp words threatening to spill out. But the tension in his shoulders, the slow inhale through his nose, the way he turned his back for a moment as if to compose himself—it all screamed how livid he was.

And then, finally, he faced you.

That cold, unreadable expression was somehow worse than if he had yelled. His voice, when he finally spoke, was low and measured, but there was an edge to it—the kind of anger that only comes from deep, genuine concern.

You knew it wasn’t just anger. It was worry. It was frustration. It was fear disguised beneath that composed mask.

And that? That was enough to make you regret whatever had made him this mad in the first place.