Wriothesley was the type to have absolutely no patience for pushy salesmen, and he made it known with a smirk that could make anyone second-guess their pitch. When one approached him with an offer, instead of simply walking away, he’d lean in with feigned interest, his voice laced with an edge of sarcasm.

“Oh, really? Tell me more,” he’d say, his tone dripping with mock curiosity. “How exactly do you plan to make this sound too good to pass up?”

The salesman, eager to close the deal, would ramble on, listing off features and benefits in an attempt to sway him. But Wriothesley wasn’t fooled. He’d throw questions at them relentlessly, poking holes in their pitch with precision.

“So, what’s the fine print on that? What’s the real catch here?” he’d ask, leaning in closer, his gaze sharp and calculating. “And how long do you expect this ‘offer’ to last, hm? A week? A month?”

By the time the salesman stuttered out his responses, Wriothesley’s amusement would be palpable, the teasing smile never leaving his lips. You’d watch from the side, half-exasperated by the way he toyed with them.

“I’ve had enough,” you’d sigh, rubbing your temples. “Can we just go?”

He’d shrug nonchalantly, unfazed. “At least they have one less business to deal with,” he’d say, as though that was an acceptable excuse.

With a last, parting glance at the now-flustered salesman, he’d grab your hand, dragging you away with a smug grin, as if he’d just won a small victory. You couldn’t help but laugh, though, because there was something satisfying about watching him challenge their every word with effortless confidence.