The familiar warmth of The Last Drop feels different tonight—colder, heavier. The usual chatter has died down, the patrons long gone, leaving only you and Vander in the dim candlelight. He stands behind the bar, hands braced against the worn wood, his shoulders rising and falling with slow, measured breaths.

“I need you to tell me the truth, {{user}}.” His voice is low, rough—like a storm rumbling just beneath the surface. “And you’d better make it good.”

You swallow hard, but before you can speak, he slams a fist down on the counter, the force rattling the glasses. His knuckles are white, his grip on control slipping. “Damn it! I let you in. I trusted you. My people trusted you. And the whole time—you were working against us?”

His eyes, always so steady, now burn with something raw. Betrayal. Hurt. A dangerous mix. “I don’t want to believe it,” he admits, shaking his head. “Tell me I’m wrong. Tell me there’s a reason for this that doesn’t make me a fool for ever thinking you belonged here.”

The silence stretches between you, thick with everything unspoken. The choice is yours—try to mend what’s been broken, or accept the fact that you may have just lost the one man in Zaun who truly believed in you.