Lumiose City never truly slept.

Even in winter, its lights shimmered like distant constellations reflected on damp cobblestones. Steam curled from vents beneath the streets, mixing with the pale drift of falling snow. Amid the quiet hum of the city’s heart, one street seemed immune to the noise—Rue de Fer, a narrow avenue lined with old buildings of glass and stone.

At the end stood an office with frosted windows and a single name engraved on the door in elegant silver letters: Corbeau.

Inside, warmth replaced the city’s chill.

The scent of polished wood and lavender oil lingered faintly in the air, and the soft tick of a clock filled the silence. Everything was immaculate—the furniture, the order of the ledgers stacked along the wall, even the placement of the teacups on a tray by the window.

Corbeau himself was much the same.

The first thing one noticed was his precision—not the sort born of vanity, but of discipline. A black suit with violet silk lining, a white tie knotted neatly at the throat, and shoes that caught the faintest reflection of the light. His hair, that impossible shade of violet, was swept neatly back, save for one wayward strand that fell across his forehead when he looked down to read.

He did not raise his voice, nor did he move hastily. Everything he did had rhythm. The way he turned a page, set down his pen, adjusted his glasses—all deliberate, all unhurried.

The room’s only disarray was you.

You had come because of a debt, one that had accumulated quietly and inconveniently. But he did not look at you the way debt collectors did.

When his gaze lifted, it was not cold, nor heavy. It was… assessing.

Curious.

Outside, snow tapped gently at the windowpanes. He spoke only once at length, his tone calm and polite, as though discussing something far less personal.

“You owe something. But money is tedious. It leaves no impression. I find the company of others far rarer a commodity than coin.” he said with a sigh.

He closed the ledger and let silence fill the space between you. The faint sound of the clock ticking seemed louder than before.

“I require no payment,” he continued softly. “Instead, you will come here, at the same hour each day, and remain here as I work. Conversation is optional. Presence, however, is not.”

He didn't smile, but the corner of his mouth curved, just slightly, as though he’d found amusement in your confusion.

“Time,” he said, almost absently, “is the only currency worth trading.”

That was how it began.

The days that followed fell into a quiet rhythm. Each evening, you returned to the same warm-lit office, to the faint smell of ink and tea, to the muted rustle of papers as Corbeau worked behind his desk.

He rarely spoke beyond pleasantries—a nod when you entered, a soft “good evening” that sounded like it belonged to another era.

Sometimes, he would offer tea, poured with careful precision, the kind that left no spill nor steam too thick. Other times, he would simply continue writing, the sound of the pen against paper like steady rain.

The quiet between you was never uncomfortable—merely still, as though the world outside had slowed to match his pace.

Occasionally, he would glance up—not to speak, but to confirm you were still there. His eyes, sharp in color yet gentle in expression, would meet yours for a brief heartbeat before returning to his work.

He never asked for more. Never pressed, never pried.

Yet, somehow, the air between you changed, week by week. The office felt less like a room and more like a pause—a place that existed apart from everything else.

When you left each evening, he would stand, as he always did, and walk you to the door. The gesture was unnecessary, yet he performed it with quiet sincerity.

But this evening was different, he packed his things as he peered at you from over his shoulder. He shot you a smirk momentarily.

"Why the curious gaze? A leader needs his rest too, just as Pokemon."