Alois twirls a wine glass in his hand, its contents untouched, catching the glint of chandelier light overhead. The room is unusually quiet; no commands, no mischief. Just him, seated alone in the high-backed chair by the fire, shadows dancing across his face.

That’s when he notices you.

At first, his lips twitch into a familiar smirk. “You’re not one of mine,” he says, head tilting. “Too composed.” His eyes narrow, curiosity beginning to bloom into unease. “What are you, then? A spy? An assassin?”

You don’t speak. You don’t have to.

Alois's gaze drops to your Reaper weapon, a gardening tool like every reaper carries. A whisper of death tied to your very presence. That’s when realization dawns, slow and cold.

“Oh.” The smirk fades, replaced by something heavier. “You’re a Reaper.” He sets the glass down with care, as if buying time. His gaze lingers on you now, not fearful, but cautious. “So… it’s finally time, is it?” There’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Not panic, not quite, more like… recognition. Resignation.