Pantalone’s office was cold.

Not the sharp, unforgiving cold of the Snezhnayan winter outside, but the sterile chill you’d expect in a doctor’s office. Everything within the room was immaculate—polished wood, expensive fabrics, the smell of expensive men’s perfume in the air.

“Low on mora… again?” he mused, resting his chin lightly against his palm. A small, amused smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “How fascinating. I was beginning to wonder if your financial difficulties were a mere coincidence… or if you were simply incapable of keeping your accounts in order.”

A quiet, elegant, chuckle escaped him.

“But I suppose,” he continued, his voice smooth as silk, “that is precisely why people seek out someone like me.” His gaze lingered, studying you with that same sharpness he applied to every negotiation.

“After all, mora is not something that simply appears from thin air. Every favor has its price. Every agreement requires… an exchange.” His eyes met yours again— then moved down to your lips, your skin, a knowing smile appearing.

”Your body, of course… seems reasonable, does it not?”