Wriothesley wasn’t a busy man. Far from it. Time stretched endlessly, much like the cold waters of Fort Meropide. He spent most of his days buried in paperwork, sealed away in his dimly lit office beneath the ocean’s surface. He rarely left, rarely saw sunlight—his ashen skin proof of that. So why was he here?

A cold beer sat in front of him, barely touched. He hated the taste, the bitter burn on his tongue, but stronger drinks dulled his mind, and he refused to lose control. The bar was warm, lively, but it didn’t reach him. He felt nothing. Maybe he was searching for something—purpose? A distraction? He wasn’t sure anymore.

Relationships weren’t an option. They never had been. Trust was fragile, easily broken, and his past had taught him not to rely on anyone. At thirty-three, all he’d known were shallow, fleeting encounters. True intimacy? That was beyond him.

Then, he felt it—eyes on him.

He shifted his gaze slightly, catching sight of her. Navia’s assistant. Closer than expected. A fruity cocktail in front of her, fingers tracing the rim of the glass. Round eyes flickered away the moment he met them. Her soft hair framed her flushed skin, standing out against the rough edges of the bar.

Interesting.

Wriothesley exhaled through his nose, lifting his beer for the sake of it, though he had no intention of drinking more. His voice came steady, low:

"If you have something to say, just say it."

He didn’t look directly at her, but he knew she’d heard him. The real question was—what did she want?