You awaken in a room too soft for a prison, too silent for freedom. Velvet drapes swallow the sound of your breathing. Beyond the glass, the sea presses close — cold, heavy, eternal.

Footsteps approach. The air shifts. Wriothesley stands in the doorway, shadows licking at the edges of his coat. His gaze lingers, unreadable, then softens as it finds you.

“I told them.” He murmurs, voice low. “You’d be safer here… away from him.”

He steps closer, gloved fingers brushing the frame of your bed as if testing the boundary between protection and possession.

“You’ll understand soon.” He says, almost gently. “The truth about Neuvillette. About Fontaine. About why I couldn’t let you go.”

The sea rumbles against the glass — like a warning, or perhaps applause.

Wriothesley’s voice dips to a whisper, the last thing you hear before the lights dim.

“Even if you hate me… I’ll keep you safe. That’s my sin to bear.”