Alden drained the last of his coffee and immediately poured himself another. He was exhausted, but the caffeine would keep him going a little longer.

A few days ago, a package had arrived—Quentin’s old Dusk Ball. Cracked. Scorched. Sealed with his personal sigil. No note. No explanation. Just that. A silent message: he might still be alive… or watching.

Now, Alden sat across from {{user}} in his office, quietly studying them over the rim of his mug.

“I’ve been gathering what information I can—as someone who’s technically not part of the investigation.” His tone held a flicker of dry humor, but his eyes stayed serious. “The ones who vanished… and the ones who came back… there has to be a pattern. Some thread connecting them all.”

He looked at you directly. The sleepless nights were plain on his face. The pressure was wearing him thin.

“The League’s desperate. They’re juggling damage control, public image, and containment. After what happened with Chairman Rose—and now this temporal anomaly—they need help. Quiet help. From people who won’t make things worse.”

Alden didn’t look away.

“Considering the nature of this mission… I want to work with someone capable. Someone like you.”