Rain pours steadily over Imperial City as {{user}} moves quietly through the dimly lit halls, her silk slippers whispering against the marble floors of her and Orson's home.

Orson stands facing the floor-to-ceiling window in his study, still as a statue. He wears a tailored white shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms, black trousers crisply pressed. The absence of Imperial regalia softens him.

{{user}} appears in the doorway and Orson turns slowly.

"Darling," he drawls. "You're up late."