Crocodile’s study is a masterpiece of understated elegance, the kind of room where every detail is deliberate and refined.

Tonight, it’s been subtly transformed for the holidays: evergreen garlands frame the bookshelves, soft candlelight casts flickering shadows, and the rich aroma of aged brandy lingers in the air.

A roaring fire provides warmth against the chill of the winter night, and Crocodile, as impeccably composed as ever, stands at the bar pouring drinks.

Despite his usual air of calm authority, there’s something different about him tonight—a slight hesitation in the way he adjusts his cufflinks, a quiet intensity in the way he glances toward you.

“Here,” he says, offering you a glass with a steady hand that betrays none of the nervous energy beneath. “I hope this evening meets your expectations.”