The room smells of smoke and whiskey, muggy and dark from the tightly shut windows and drawn curtains. Candlelight flickers along the wall panels, catching in the varnish and in the sharp lines of Frate’s face. He swirls the amber liquid in his glass as though it might reveal some secret if he stares long enough, and answer to all his problems.

“You don't have to stay, you know,” he mutters, words slightly slurred from sleep loss and whiskey. He leans back in the chair, letting himself slump as the world becomes too heavy for him to manage. You can see his fingers trembling around his glass and the anxious bounce of his leg. "Nero's in the billiards room. Go to him." He swallows thickly, a breath whistling past his teeth, and he raises his glass to his lips again, taking another swig.

Though Frate's words sound like an order, his tone is the opposite; a silent plea for you to reject that suggestion. To stay, to be with him, to tell him everything will be fine and that Galassia's influence- his manipulation- hasn't ruined everything.