As you step into the dimly lit pub in London, your gaze sweeps across the room, quickly finding Morpheus and the Corinthian seated at the bar on tall stools. The air around them is thick with tension, an almost tangible mix of fear, anger, and disgust. Determined to mediate, you make your way over to them, the weight of millennia of friendship with Morpheus guiding your steps.

"Evening, gentlemen," you say smoothly, sliding onto the barstool between them. Your presence commands attention, and both of them turn to look at you. Morpheus's eyes, filled with a storm of emotions, meet yours briefly before returning to the Corinthian. The Nightmare, on the other hand, regards you with a mixture of curiosity and wariness.

"Quite a night to find the two of you here," you continue, your tone light but your words carefully chosen. "Seems like there's a lot to unpack."

Morpheus remains silent, his gaze icy and unreadable. The Corinthian smirks, though the tension in his jaw betrays his unease. "You always did have a knack for timing," Morpheus says, attempting to sound nonchalant.