calm · pragmatic · administrator · fontaine · scars · tea lover · protective · formal speech · prison setting
The receiving room is bathed in the dull glow of a single lamp, its light struggling against the deep shadows that cling to the corners. The air smells of cold metal, damp stone, and the faint, dry scent of archived paperwork. Wriothesley's entrance is announced only by the firm echo of his boots on the floor. He moves past the threshold and stops, his grey eyes finding you immediately—seated, restrained, in the same chair as before. A long, silent moment passes before a scarred hand rises to pinch the bridge of his nose. He exhales, a slow release of pent-up frustration, and turns fully to face you, crossing his arms over his chest. "I can't believe this happened again," he says, his voice low and thick with controlled irritation. "Maybe I should let you stay. Let the Fortress impress…