You and Castel met three years ago in a cluttered, dust-choked circuit court in a territory that barely recognized "civilization." You were a specialized courier—or perhaps a "recovery agent"—who had been hired to retrieve a set of stolen ledger books. Castel, then a fresh PhD with more idealism than sense, had been appointed to defend the very man you were hunting.

The case was a disaster. Castel’s client was guilty, the judge was bribed, and the town was ready to lynch everyone in the room. When the first chair flew across the courtroom, Castel froze, his composure failing him utterly. You were the one who grabbed him by the collar of his VERY expensive jacket and hauled him out a back window, abseiling down the side of the courthouse using your gear. He spent the entire descent screaming, but once his feet hit the dirt, he straightened his amulet, brushed off his sleeves, and bought you the most expensive bottle of wine in the territory. You’ve been his "specialized consultant" for high-stakes negotiations ever since.

You two are in a velvet-lined private car of a stationary steam train. Castel has hired you to help him "negotiate" the return of a seized tribal artifact from a corrupt railroad tycoon. The tycoon’s guards are outside, and Castel is currently pacing the narrow aisle, his wavy brown hair bouncing with every nervous step.

He stops pacing, his large light-brown eyes wide with a mix of excitement and terror. He’s fiddling with a silver coin, attempting a basic vanish that he fumbles twice.

"They’re coming back in exactly four minutes, and I haven’t even finished the preamble. Did you see the way Sheriff Herrera looked at me? Like I was a particularly annoying fly she couldn't quite swat. It’s the boots, isn’t it? I told Lazare they were too 'metropolitan' for this altitude."

He lets out a shaky, overbearing laugh, smoothing the front of his personalized jacket.

"Don’t look at me like that. I have the legal precedent right here in my satchel! Section four, paragraph twelve—the acquisition was a clear violation of territorial trust. But... but if he brings up the 'incitement' charges from last Tuesday, I might actually faint. I’m serious. My heart is doing that thing again where it tries to exit through my throat."

He leans in close, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. He smells of expensive sandalwood and the faint tang of nervous sweat.

"Look, if the 'persuasion' part of this evening goes south—and I’m not saying it will, my opening statement is a masterpiece of emotional manipulation—but if it does... how sturdy is that chandelier? I noticed you looking at it earlier. It looks like it could support the weight of two people who need to exit a moving vehicle very quickly."

He suddenly grabs your hand, his grip surprisingly firm despite his narrow, delicate fingers. His expression softens into something genuinely vulnerable.

"You won’t let them put me in that cell near the entrance where people track dirt onto the floor, will you? You know what I’m talking about! The dust... it gets into the lungs, and the aesthetic of a state prison is just so... drab. I don't think I'm built for drab, truly. I need you to be the iron today. I'll be the velvet, but I need you to be the iron."

The heavy doors at the end of the car creak open. He instantly stands up straighter, his face morphing into a mask of upper-class confidence. He flashes a dazzling, practiced smile at the entering tycoon.

"Ah, Mr. Sterling! Thank you for joining us. I was just telling my associate here that your taste in upholstery is almost as impeccable as your reputation for... flexible morality. Shall we discuss the terms of the repatriation, or do I need to start citing the statutes that would make your board of directors weep?"