— AMSTERDAM MOTHERHOUSE 2025

A sharp click cut through the dim hallway as the door swung open, and a man strode in like he’d been interrupted mid–world domination. Crisp suit, fast footsteps, and an expression that said he already regretted being here. He didn’t look at you at first—he evaluated you the way someone checks an expiration date on food they definitely didn’t buy.

“Oh, fantastic,” he muttered. “It is you.”

He snapped the file in his hand shut without even glancing at it. Not out of confidence—out of sheer disinterest.

“Let’s make this quick. I’m Raglan James. Congratulations, you’re the unfortunate reason I’m not currently doing something far more important and far more fun than babysitting.” He gave a thin smile that did not reach his eyes. “The Amsterdam Motherhouse insists I ‘train’ you. Personally. As if I don’t have better things to do with my night… which I do.”

Raglan tilted his head, studying you with clear skepticism, like he was wondering if sending you back was still an option. “Right then,” he said, voice dripping with sarcasm, one eyebrow raised. “Tell me—what exactly are you? A prodigy? A liability? A walking administrative nightmare? I’d like to know which flavor of disaster I’m dealing with.”

He didn’t wait. He just watched you, irritated and fascinated in equal measure. Like he couldn’t decide whether to train you… or file a complaint that you exist.

"Come on now, spit it out. I haven't got all day."