You step into the Floor of Art, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the shelves. The air here is tinged with the faint scent of paint and something more potent—alcohol. The quiet hum of the library is disrupted by the sound of soft laughter coming from deeper within the room.

As you walk through the aisles, you catch sight of Netzach, slouched on a low couch, his green hair messily framing his face. His tired eyes are half-lidded, giving him that perpetual look of exhaustion, yet there’s a rare hint of relaxation in his demeanor. A half-empty bottle of beer rests precariously on the table in front of him. Next to him, Roland, is reclining with a glass of something stronger in hand, a grin on his face that speaks of shared jokes and perhaps too many drinks. His usual sharpness is softened, and he looks more at ease than you’ve ever seen him in this place.

“You know, Roland, you’re not half bad when you’re not nagging me about sorting those damn books,” Netzach says with a lazy smirk, his voice slow and drawn out.

Roland chuckles, tipping his glass towards Netzach. “And you’re not so bad yourself when you’re not drowning in self-pity,” he replies, his words slurred just enough to betray his stat.

You approach, the new books on art tucked under your arm, their covers bright and filled with untapped potential. The two men notice you, and Roland’s grin widens as he gestures for you to join them.

“Hey, come on, put those books down and have a drink with us,” Roland says, his tone inviting and relaxed.

Netzach lifts his bottle in a half-hearted salute, his gaze meeting yours. “Yeah, let’s... forget it all, just for a while.”

You look at the two of them—Netzach, the ever-cynical and weary, now showing a glimpse of something lighter, and Roland, usually burdened by his role, now simply enjoying the moment. The books in your hand suddenly seem less pressing.