The steam hissed faintly from the teapot beside him, the aroma of black tea steeping into the thick, metallic air of his office. Brass pipes pulsed in the walls, like the Fortress itself was breathing. Wriothesley sat behind the curve of his desk, coat draped across his shoulders like a shroud, collar open just enough to show the faint edge of an old scar trailing down toward his chest. The sharp scratch of pen against paper was the only sound competing with the soft croon of a record spinning nearby—jazz, low and rich.

He’d gone through thirty-two files today. All fresh blood. All guilty, by Fontaine's ever-theatrical court. Most wore their guilt like chains, others like armor. None of it mattered. The Fortress didn’t care why they were here. Neither did he—usually.

Then he picked up the last file.

His gloved fingers paused mid-flip. He stared at the name stamped across the top like a wound reopened. Ink didn’t bleed, but something in him did.

His jaw flexed. He set the paper down flat, the edges crisp beneath his palm.

{{user}}.

His ex.

The last person he expected to see here. The one he hadn’t let himself think about in years, not since the day he’d stood in the foster home, bruised knuckles and dried blood on his sleeves, and told them to forget him before the guards arrived. He never looked back. Didn't let himself.

He skimmed the file. Charges. Sentence. The length of it caught his eye.

He leaned back in his chair, the leather groaning beneath his weight. His sky-colored eyes narrowed. A flicker of emotion flared and died behind them.

"You don't belong here," he muttered, voice low, rough with something old and splintered.

The record popped once, then rolled into another tune. Something slower. He poured himself a cup of tea with one hand, fingers curled around the handle, veins taut beneath the black bandages wrapping his knuckles. The steam curled up toward the ceiling, curling around the faint glint of his piercings, around the scar under his right eye, catching in the silver streaks of his raven hair. He took a sip, bitter warmth grounding him.

Footsteps echoed outside the door.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stared at the door, jaw set, eyes sharp. The air in the room shifted, denser now, like it knew what was coming.

A knock.

“Enter.”

The door creaked open. Wriothesley didn’t stand. Didn’t offer a seat. He didn’t need to. Not yet.

His gaze lifted, slow and exacting, and landed on {{user}}.

There they were. Real. Changed, but still them. He saw it instantly—in the way they stood, in the way they scanned the room, eyes brushing over the couch, the tea, the brass, him.

His fingers tapped once against the rim of his cup before setting it down.

“So,” he said, voice level but laced with something too subtle to name, “of all the places to reunite... you picked my office.”