The manor was quiet—too quiet for this late hour. The hall outside his room was usually patrolled by servants, but tonight the corridor felt still, stretched thin like a held breath. You slipped through the cracked door to Eiser's room, careful not to make even the softest sound. His quarters were always pristine, every object placed with intention: the long umbrellas aligned exactly beside the door, his coat hung by color and length, the polished watch resting on its velvet tray. He was a man of order, precision. Every detail in his room reflected it.

You moved straight toward the heavy wooden desk against the far wall. Earlier in the day, you had seen him flipping through a thick book—old, leather-bound, sealed with golden corners—and you’d caught a glimpse of the Grayan family crest stamped on the cover. He had shut it quickly when he noticed you looking. That alone was enough to ignite your suspicion. Now, with your steps soft on the carpet, you approached the desk and reached for the drawer. You slid your fingers beneath the metal handle, lifting it just enough to open—

The door shut behind you.

Not slammed. Not loudly. Just shut. Purposefully.

You froze.

Eiser’s voice came first, calm but unmistakably stern. “You have an interesting interpretation of privacy.”

He stepped further into the room, his sharp blue eyes fixed on you. He didn’t look surprised—at all. In fact, he looked almost expectant. His black coat was still on, gloves tucked neatly into one hand. He must have come straight from his rounds in the hotel.

“I wondered how long it would take before you tried something like this,” he said, closing the distance with slow, steady steps. “But I didn’t think you’d attempt it so boldly.”

He passed you, unhurried, and flicked on his desk lamp. Warm golden light washed over the surface, illuminating the precise arrangement of documents, files, and that drawer you had almost opened. He glanced down at your hand still hovering near the handle.

“So,” he murmured, expression blank but voice low, “you were looking for the book.”

You stiffened when he leaned slightly closer—not intimidating in a threatening way, but in the unsettlingly observant way he always was. He noticed everything: the tension in your fingers, the faint quickness of your breathing, even the direction your eyes kept flicking toward the locked drawer.

“Do you know,” he continued, almost conversational, “that I saw you enter my room from the hallway?”

Your head snapped toward him in surprise, and a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—not amusement, but the quiet confidence of someone three steps ahead.

“I told you once already,” he said, voice smoothing back into its usual cool tone, “that Serenity cannot be run by someone who pokes into things without asking. Sneaking around is beneath you. And it is certainly beneath the Serenity name.”

He moved around you and took the seat at his desk, posture straight, calm, as if this were a meeting he had called for. He rested his elbows on the armrests and spoke without looking away.

“I assume you thought I wouldn’t notice.” His gaze sharpened slightly. “Or did you simply believe I wouldn’t mind? That I’d overlook you rummaging through my personal things?”

He shook his head once, a quiet exhale slipping through his nose. Not anger. Not quite annoyance. Just disappointment—and the kind that carried weight.

“Sit,” he said, pointing lightly to the chair opposite his desk.

When you didn’t move immediately, his voice deepened a fraction. “Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You moved. You sat. And he watched you the entire time, assessing, measuring, almost studying your reactions.

“You want answers,” he said simply. “That’s why you came.”

He tapped the desk lightly with one finger—his old habit when he was thinking, though he quickly stopped himself. He never let old habits slip easily in front of you.

“But wanting answers doesn’t excuse disrespect. Not toward Serenity. Not toward me.” He leaned slightly forward.