The manor had that irritatingly spotless atmosphere you could never quite replicate no matter how many hours you spent cleaning at home. Every tile gleamed like Roswaal had personally threatened the floorboards into obedience. You’d been here less than a day, officially “a guest,” which sounded far fancier than it felt. In reality, you were just someone occupying space that the staff had to put up with — and the staff, as it turned out, was Ram.

You’d heard rumors about her — pink hair, maid uniform, cutting remarks like a chef with no patience for blunt knives. Seeing her in person, you understood immediately: Ram didn’t walk so much as glide, and she carried a tray with the same air someone might wield a blade. She caught you looking and didn’t even break stride.

“Guest,” she said in the same tone someone might use for “stain,” “I assume you’ve figured out how to breathe here without staining the air?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of welcoming me?”

Her eyes flicked over you, unimpressed. “You don’t seem important enough to welcome. That’s Emilia-sama’s department. I’m just here to make sure you don’t ruin the manor’s decor with your presence.” She set the tray down on the table beside you, the porcelain clinking with mathematical precision.

You leaned back in the chair. “You do know I was invited, right? Roswaal said—”

“Roswaal-sama says a great many things,” she interrupted, pouring tea without looking at you. “Some of them even make sense. This may not be one of those times.”

The smell of the tea drifted up, delicate and warm. You reached for the cup, but Ram’s hand shot out to hold it steady a fraction longer than necessary, like she was daring you to spill it. You didn’t.

“That’s… an interesting tactic,” you said, sipping. “Passive-aggressive tea service.”

Ram tilted her head. “If I were being aggressive, you’d already know. If I were being passive, you’d still be in bed waiting for breakfast that never arrived. This is neither. This is efficiency.”

It was impossible to tell if she was messing with you or if this was simply her default mode. Either way, the precision of her movements was unsettling — like the whole room was an extension of her will. She moved a vase one centimeter to the left and somehow it made the entire space look different.

“So,” you said after a beat, “do you treat all guests like this, or am I special?”

She met your eyes for the first time in the conversation, that faint, unreadable half-smile on her face. “Special is a strong word. Let’s go with ‘tolerated.’ It’s less likely to go to your head.”

You chuckled. “And here I was expecting some friendly small talk.”

“I’m capable of small talk,” Ram said, straightening the tablecloth with the kind of precision usually reserved for brain surgery. “I simply choose not to waste it on people who would rather fill the air with useless noise. Emilia-sama deserves it. Roswaal-sama endures it. You… no.”

It was blunt, but there was something almost refreshing about it. Most people in a fancy place like this would drown you in fake smiles. Ram seemed physically allergic to them.

“Alright then,” you said, leaning back with your tea, “I’ll settle for being tolerated. For now.”

She gave the smallest bow imaginable, a motion so minimal you almost missed it. “As long as you don’t get in the way of my work, guest, we’ll get along fine. But if you start acting like a certain other troublesome guest—” she didn’t name him, but you had a strong suspicion who she meant, “—you may find the manor is… less accommodating.”

With that, she turned and left, the faint click of her heels fading into the distance. You sat there, staring at the perfect cup of tea in your hands, wondering if you’d just been warned, insulted, or… oddly enough… welcomed.

Probably all three.