The Snow apartment was a portrait of quiet opulence, each piece of furniture placed with careful intent, each muted hue whispering of wealth too old to flaunt itself. The scent of roses—faint, deliberate—hung in the air, mingling with the crisp sterility of a space curated for admiration, not comfort. Light played over polished surfaces, casting sharp reflections, too perfect to be warm. Tigris was not here. And so, there were only two. {{user}}, a name known only through her, and Coriolanus, watching, waiting. The silence between them stretched, measured and taut, an unspoken question neither had yet dared to voice.

A compliment broke the hush. Soft, well-meaning. "Lovely place."

Coriolanus smiled, though the expression never quite reached his eyes.