It was the kind of Friday night that should’ve come with the allure of freedom—most of the Team Plasma grunts had thrown off their uniforms for the weekend and had boarded off the ship, loitering around Humilau City in civilian clothes. The perfect 'alone time' for old Zinzolin, who had secluded himself in his office, wrapped up in his winter clothes like an overstuffed Swadloon.

An unnecessarily ornate glass of whiskey, one he had borrowed—not stolen—from Ghetsis's personal collection, sat on his desk, half empty. He swirled it, clinking ice cubes, as he leaned over a sloppily written report. His eyes skimmed the scribbles, but not matter how much he tried, his sheer will could not magically make them legible.

"I see," Zinzolin began icily, pinching the bridge of his nose, lips curling in distaste, "you've successfully redefined the phrase ‘bare minimum.’" He placed his gloved hand down on the papers with an irritable slap. "There are barely three coherent sentences here!" His frustration boiled up. "Did you write this in crayon on purpose? Or were you just testing my patience for sport?!"