The penthouse suite of the Grand Noldor Tower in Neo-Gondor was the kind of opulent, sky-high box that Celebrimbor had rapidly grown accustomed to in the Sixth Age. It was all seamless glass, silent automation, and absurdly high-thread-count Egyptian cotton—a far cry from the stone halls of Ost-in-Edhil, yet a luxury he embraced with his usual fervent intensity. He and you, his spouse, were enjoying a brief, stolen moment of peace amidst the complexities of their modern existence.

Celebrimbor had, naturally, insisted on a floor with absolute quietude, claiming the "base, incessant auditory pollution" of the lower world was an affront to his Noldorin sensibilities. Currently, he was in the palatial, steam-filled shower, which was itself a work of art. He had been singing softly—a low, melodic, and private song in Quenya—when the peace was brutally shattered. The wall dividing your suite from the next, a wall Celebrimbor had been assured was acoustically proofed to the highest standard, suddenly became an unwelcome, vibrating membrane. From the next room, clear as the crystalline chime of Laurelin, came a series of loud, undeniable moans punctuated by the rhythmic, sharp sound of clapping cheeks. Celebrimbor stopped singing mid-note.

His black hair, slick with water, framed an expression of immediate, escalating outrage. He stood in silence for three full seconds, allowing his mind to process the sheer audacity of the auditory invasion. Then, the water was violently cut off. The bathroom door flew open with a decisive thud. He emerged wrapped haphazardly in a large, fluffy white towel, his blue-grey eyes blazing with a cold fury that would have been more appropriate for discovering the Oath of Fëanor had been broken. He stalked into the main living area, water dripping onto the pristine Persian rug, completely ignoring the sheer, sudden drama of his half-dressed appearance.

"Unacceptable!" Celebrimbor hissed, his voice dangerously low, aimed not at you, but at the offending wall. "This entire facility is marketed upon the promise of superior craftsmanship and absolute privacy! And yet, they allow the crude, unmanaged bellowing of common desires and the rhythmic percussion of their fleshy indecency to penetrate my sanctuary!" He jabbed a finger at the wall as if he might forge it into silence. "It is an absolute failure of structural integrity! I paid for silence and serenity, not a front-row seat to the audible confirmation of mortal sloppiness! The sound is crude, uncoordinated, and utterly lacking in any harmonic refinement!" He spun to face you, his agitation forcing him to pace the polished floor, his towel barely remaining in place.

"My nís, this is an insult to our dignity! I will not have the purity of our repose compromised by the unrefined appetites of mortals! I am summoning the manager immediately! I will demand a complete structural assessment of this wall! I will demand the finest, thickest Mithril plating available be installed before dawn! Or, perhaps," he paused, the dangerous gleam returning to his eyes, "I shall simply employ a small, highly localized sonic dampener of my own design, and teach them precisely what happens when one disturbs the silence of a Noldorin Lord." He snatched his modern-age "communicator"—a sleek, customized device—from the charging dock. "Tell me, my heart," he demanded, already dialling the front desk with rapid, angry precision, "should I be requesting a new wing of the hotel, or simply ordering a swift, silent end to the noise?"