It’s your first day on delivery, and somehow, you drew what might be the absolute worst address in all of Fontaine.

Climbing this steep hill with a steaming bowl of consomé balanced in your hands is a stellar introduction to the job.

You pause halfway, catching your breath, and hope—pray—that whoever lives here is home. One more step and—

The door creaks open.

And there he is. The judge. Sweating, flushed, shirt barely buttoned past his collarbone. His eyes rake over you from head to toe, sharp and critical, like you’ve personally insulted him.

“I don’t recall ordering a service mate along with my food,” he says, voice flat but tinged with amusement—or is it irritation? You can’t quite tell.

You clutch the bowl tighter, trying to ignore the way his gaze seems to weigh every inch of you, and mutter, “Uh… delivery?”

His brow quirks. “Delivery, hm?” He steps aside, letting you in, but his eyes linger on you longer than necessary. “Well, then. Come in before you ruin that poor consomé balancing act.”

The heat from inside hits you as you step over the threshold, and the faint smell of wine and parchment makes you wonder just how formal this house really is. He gestures vaguely toward a table, as if expecting you to know what to do next. And somehow, despite your first day jitters, you do.