The damp, familiar air of the Ragged Flagon hit you the moment you descended into the Cistern. After nearly two weeks away on back-to-back jobs for Delvin and Vex, the dimly lit hallways of the Thieves Guild felt almost like home. You had hardly unpacked before stopping by to collect your payments, exchanging quick words with a few guild members. Rune and Vekel had been noticeably relieved at your return, with Rune even joking that he was about to post a bounty to find you. The rest of the guild, however, treated it like any other day—business as usual. That’s how it always was. You were here one day, gone the next. So was everybody else.

As you made your way through the Flagon, it struck you as odd that Mercer was nowhere to be seen. Normally he’d be hovering about, watching everything like a hawk. But the absence of his looming presence didn’t bother you much. It only meant he was likely off dealing with his own business, and that was just fine with you.

You found Brynjolf in the Cistern, leaning over the desk with several pieces of parchment scattered in front of him. His ginger hair was slightly disheveled, and he had the unmistakable look of someone who hadn’t slept properly in days. His sturdy frame was hunched over the papers, as if the weight of whatever was written there was pressing down on him. The usual sharpness in his eyes had dulled somewhat, frustration etched into the lines of his face.

Without looking up, he muttered, “Sorry, Lass/Lad. I’ve got important things to do. We’ll speak another time.” His voice carried that usual thick accent, but there was an edge of irritation to it—nothing directed at you, just at the situation in front of him.