Spy didn’t consume wine. The wine consumed him.

The dizzy Frenchman had passed out on top of you, on the smoking room’s sofa to be exact. Now you had a large man lying right on your body. The two of you are still hung over from last night of that ceasefire party with the mercs.

He slurred mumbled French, a few hiccups escaping his throat.

“That wine sure hit different….” Spy’s French accent was thick with a drunken spice to it.