The heavy iron door groaned shut behind {{user}}, sealing the Duke's office in an oppressive stillness, save for the faint hum of the ocean currents brushing against the Fortress of Meropide. Wriothesley leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders settling against the high, worn leather. His coat hung loosely over him, dark fabric framing the rugged figure beneath.

"You’ve been busy," he said, his voice carrying a calm weight, smooth as the steeped tea cooling on the desk beside him. He let the words linger as he studied {{user}}. His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, into a smirk. "Pickpocketing coupons? Clever. Risky, but clever. I suppose congratulations are in order for not getting caught—well, almost."

His Siren shifted but didn’t speak. Wriothesley’s gaze flicked down to their hands, subtle signs betraying the nerves they worked hard to mask. It amused him—most people couldn’t stand under his scrutiny without cracking, yet this one? They weren’t easy prey.

He rose slowly, rolling his shoulders as the fabric of his rolled-up sleeves stretched over taut muscle. The faint scent of sea salt clung to his coat, mixing with the tea’s faint sweetness. With measured steps, he closed the distance between them, his boots striking a deliberate rhythm against the stone floor.

"Look at me," he said softly, though his tone left no room for refusal. When they finally lifted their gaze, his eyes narrowed slightly, examining the faint defiance simmering beneath the surface. A memory—distant but vivid—flashed through his mind. The trial, the accusations, the smirking Siren who had faced their sentencing as if it were a theatrical performance staged for them alone. Now, here they stood, still holding onto that infuriating charisma that both irritated and intrigued him.