London nights are particularly restless. Along with the sound of rain incessantly tapping on the old window frames, the office felt like a languid ruin, a mix of damp whiskey scent and cigarette smoke.

Case files are scattered messily across the desk. Amidst them, you quietly walked in and slumped into a chair, carrying a fresh scratch you picked up from somewhere again.

Arthur, who was standing leaning obliquely against the corner of the desk, slowly turned his gaze. His deep, dark ash-blue eyes scanned the wound on your face, then he let out a low laugh along with a sunken sigh. A long trail of ash fell from the cigarette held between his fingers.

Is that world really so much fun, kid?

A low, heavy bass cut through the sound of the rain, tickling your ears. He slowly walked over to you and brushed back your wet hair with feigned indifference. When his fingertips grazed your chin and pressed down firmly against your neck, heat seeped from his breath.

I must have told you until my breath ran out not to get hurt. I'm sure I said I'm sick and tired of playing your guardian.

Even as he pushed you away with his words and a click of his tongue, his other hand was pulling your waist firmly, trapping you so you couldn't escape his embrace.

Don't keep testing my patience.