Chapter Text
The city of Derdriu had a certain rhythm to it—sirens in the morning, street food at noon, supervillain attacks by three, and scandal by five. Rinse and repeat. The city was a symphony of disorder, kept just barely in tune by equal parts luck, gossip, and public relations.
Claude von Riegan made a living off all three—even if his mornings typically began with a half-late commute to the chaos he called a job.
By the time Claude strolled down the cracked stone steps of the metro station, Derdriu was already wide awake and halfway through its daily meltdown. The air smelled like roasted chestnuts, car exhaust, and trouble. Neon headlines blinked across the skywalk screens, each one shouting louder than the last—stock crashes, cape sightings, something about a senator caught mid-affair and mid-air. People bustled through the streets like ants with somewhere better to be, horns blaring as traffic crawled past.
All of it—discord, scandal, spectacle—was just another morning to Claude. He lived for it. Hunted it. Spun it into headlines by noon and cheeky voiceovers by five.
Claude paused long enough to snap a photo of a streetlamp bent at a forty-five degree angle, its base crushed like a soda can beside a freshly patched sidewalk. Another sign of the Blue Lion’s morning shift. “Civic Vigilante Overcorrects, Again” practically wrote itself. He already knew the angle: overzealous strength, mild property damage, but buried beneath it all, brave heroism. There was only one name on everyone’s lips these days, the name whispered on comms and shouted in headlines, circled in gossip threads and splashed across late-night TV and that was the Blue Lion. Every column he wrote that even mentioned the vigilante guaranteed a spike in traffic. Not that Claude was obsessed. He was just... invested. Professionally, that is. Brooding hunks with a jawline was a lucrative business after all.
He tucked the photo away and continued on.
He sauntered into the Leicester Lens newsroom with a hot coffee in one hand, a box of pastries in the other, and a grin that said he’d never known the concept of guilt or punctuality.
“You’re late,” Lysithea said flatly, not even glancing up from her triple-screen setup. “Again.”
Lysithea von Ordelia, prodigy editor and terror of the newsroom, was the youngest among them—fresh out of college with two degrees, a sugar addiction, and no patience for nonsense. Claude liked to tease her because it amused him, and because her comebacks often had more bite than half the op-eds they published.
Claude leaned over the rim of her monitor, setting the box of pastries next to her elbow. “I come bearing gifts.”
Lysithea’s eyes flicked to the box. Her fingers paused on the keyboard. “What kind?”
“Lavender glaze. Lemon with the dramatic drizzle. And one of those chocolate ones with the sparkly stars you pretend not to like but absolutely hoard when no one’s watching. But only after you finish your vegetables, obviously.”
Lysithea scowled at him, cheeks puffing in genuine outrage. Her hands paused mid-typing like she was debating whether to throw the keyboard at him or the donut box instead.
Before they had a repeat of the infamous stapler incident of March, Claude held the donut out like a white flag. “Let’s not revisit my concussion, yeah?”
She snatched it from his hand with a huff. “Fine. You're forgiven. But only because this one has sprinkles.”
Claude smirked placing the entire box on her desk. “Sweet forgiveness. Literally.”
Lysithea rolled her eyes but couldn’t help herself—she snatched another donut from the box and bit into one with the silent fury of someone making a point through pastry.
Across the bullpen, Raphael hefted a camera rig like it weighed nothing—because to him, it didn’t. As the team's ever-reliable cameraman, he carried half the office’s gear and all of its morale on his back. He gave Claude a cheery wave, all biceps and sunshine, the human equivalent of a golden retriever with a press badge.
Ignatz, the Lens’s painfully earnest graphic designer, was hunched over his tablet like it was the only thing anchoring him to reality. His stylus twitched with precision as he obsessively shaded what looked like the Blue Lion’s cape mid-billow. He always seemingly spent more time on Blue Lion photos than any others. Claude privately suspected he had a fan account. Probably ran it with a burner.
Hilda lounged at her desk with the kind of posture that screamed "I’m working" and the manicured nails that said "absolutely not." Officially, she was their social media director—unofficially, she ran the entire office’s vibe. If something went viral, got leaked, or trended within ten minutes of a press conference, odds were it had Hilda’s fingerprints—and possibly glitter—on it.
Leonie, meanwhile, stalked the windows like a storm with a press badge, police scanner crackling in her hand. She was the Lens’s lead crime and field reporter—sharp, blunt, and always chasing the next lead like it owed her rent. She only called Claude by name when he was being tolerable—which was rare—and currently looked about five seconds from leaping through the glass at the sound of a robbery-in-progress.
It was, Claude thought fondly, a zoo. A deeply competent, barely controlled, and wildly entertaining zoo.
“Hey Claude,” Hilda sing-songed, “read your latest column this morning—Twitter loved it. Half the city was thirst-quoting that biceps line before breakfast.”
Claude raised his coffee in salute. “I stand by every word. Especially the biceps part.”
Lorenz scoffed from across the room, not even looking up from his red pen. “This is what passes for journalism now? Shameless objectification and split infinitives?”
Claude sipped his coffee with the exaggerated calm of a man preparing for mischief. “If I wanted your opinion, Lorenz, I’d read your op-eds—after noise-canceling headphones and a shot of something stronger than espresso.”
Claude didn’t mind him, not really. Lorenz was pompous, verbose, and clung to his grammar guides like sacred scriptures—but he also fact-checked like a machine and secretly fixed more typos than anyone gave him credit for. He was annoying. Claude was fond of him anyway, in his own way.
Marianne passed by carrying a stack of drafts, her quiet nod all the greeting he needed. She rarely said much in person, but Claude had learned long ago that she didn’t need to. On paper, she was devastating—her anonymous advice column had made grown men cry and Claude briefly consider emotional growth. Briefly, that is. Her desk was tucked into the quietest corner of the bullpen and shaded by a small jungle of plants—ferns, succulents, ivy—that she tended with eerie consistency. The newsroom swore they bloomed or withered with her mood.
Claude didn’t question it. He just took to his usual corner desk, feet already propped up as he settled in for the morning.
Phones rang. A siren whined somewhere outside. Voices overlapped in a steady hum of gossip, grumbling, and keyboard clatter—the newsroom’s version of a heartbeat.
A sharp metallic clunk echoed from the entryway—followed by a quiet, horrified gasp. Claude glanced up.
The office door hung slightly off-kilter, its doorknob in the newcomer's hand. He stared at it, mortified, as if he could will it back into place with pure shame.
He stood in the doorway like a confused statue—tall, broad, sharp angles and perfect posture. He clutched a folder in one hand and the broken knob in the other like twin emblems of doom.
“Um,” the guy said, voice low and apologetic, “I’m so sorry—I didn’t mean to break it. I’ll fix it, I swear.”
He looked like he might actually sprint to a hardware store right then and there.
Claude stood, interest immediately piqued. “Don’t worry about it. The building’s older than most supervillain grudges. Surprised the doors haven’t flung themselves off in protest.”
Dimitri blinked. “Oh. That’s… reassuring.” He said it with the kind of sincerity that suggested he took Claude’s comment entirely at face value—no sarcasm filter, no city cynicism. Claude couldn’t help the amused twitch of his mouth. It was strangely endearing, how genuine he was. Like someone had dropped a medieval knight into a media circus.
Claude tilted his head, smile softening just a little. “Need help with something?”
Dimitri blinked at him—just stood there for a beat too long, eyes fixed like he hadn’t expected to be addressed directly. Then, as if remembering how words worked, he fumbled the folder under his arm again and straightened. “I—I beg your pardon. Yes. I am here to see Byleth Eisner. I'm… the new intern.”
From behind her desk, Hilda leaned toward Marianne, stage-whispering with a grin, “Okay but who’s the tall hunk? That face? Those shoulders? This intern’s already ten times better than the last one. Instant eye candy.”
Eye candy was an understatement. The guy looked like someone had sketched a prince from a smutty novel and then handed him a bad day and a folder. Broad shoulders, long legs, and a jawline sharp enough to cut through newsroom politics. He was at least half a foot taller than Claude, which felt borderline rude. He wore a stiff navy blazer that looked like it belonged at a funeral, paired with slacks a shade too formal for a newsroom, shoes that probably squeaked when he walked, and—because of course—an actual tie. Claude blinked. Who wore ties anymore? Clearly, he was trying to be unassuming. Instead, he stuck out like a sore thumb, looking like a museum exhibit inserted into modern office life.
His blond hair was slightly tousled—too soft to be intimidating, too perfect not to notice—and his glasses sat just slightly crooked on a porcelain face that was all cheekbones, earnest disaster, and startlingly blue eyes that stood out even under the frames—too bright, too sincere, and entirely too easy to get lost in.
Claude extended a hand, adding a wink for good measure. “Claude von Riegan. Ace reporter. Office menace. Welcome to the Lens.”
Dimitri straightened with the kind of rigid posture that suggested bowing might be his default greeting. He held the folder like a formal document and said, "Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd. It is an honor to make your acquaintance."
Dimitri took the handshake like it was sacred. His grip was too careful, like he was afraid of breaking something—or someone.
Interesting.
He glanced toward the corner office, where Byleth’s door sat half-open and ominously silent. “Come on. I’ll walk you to the boss. Consider it your first lesson in surviving this place: never go in there alone on your first day. You might not make it back out.”
Dimitri nodded, ever so slight smile pursing his lips. Claude took that as a win—and maybe, just maybe, a little excuse to find out more about him.
Claude sauntered through the bullpen like he owned the place—technically, he didn’t, but charisma and charm went a long way in faking authority. Dimitri trailed a step behind him, stiff-backed and silent, like a knight on escort duty through a den of lions.
Claude threw open Byleth’s office door without knocking. “Delivery,” he called, voice bright. “One overly polite intern, freshly panicked and ready for orientation. Please, no tip necessary I insist."
The room was quiet. Byleth looked up from their desk with the impassive calm of someone who had already mentally buried Claude twice this month and was debating a third.
Claude stepped aside, gesturing Dimitri in with a little flourish. “Don’t let the silence fool you. They hear everything.”
Byleth gave Claude a slow side-eye that could’ve curdled cream—long-suffering, unimpressed, and only tolerant because Claude also happened to be their best writer.
Dimitri gave a short, precise nod, like he was fighting the urge to bow. “It’s an honor to be here—and to learn under your guidance.”
Claude blinked. Was this an internship or was Dimitri trying to swear fealty? Because if the guy dropped to one knee, Claude wasn’t entirely sure anyone would stop him.
Byleth regarded Dimitri in complete silence, their expression unreadable, posture as casual as it was intimidating. No raised brow, no motion to stand—just the faint tapping of a pen against the desk and eyes like twin scanner beams that had already sized him up before he’d crossed the threshold.
Dimitri didn’t flinch. If anything, he stood straighter, the folder held with ceremonial reverence.
Claude gave him credit—most people wilted under Byleth’s gaze. He’d once seen a seasoned anchor forget their own name mid-meeting. But Dimitri didn’t so much as twitch, which only deepened Claude’s curiosity.
Byleth finally set the pen down. “You’ll be shadowing Claude for now. You'll be with us for the next year, so get comfortable.”
Dimitri nodded, eyes solemn. “Understood.”
“Try not to let him drag you into a lawsuit,” Byleth added.
Claude threw a hand to his chest. “I’ve only been sued twice, and both times I made deadline.”
There was, perhaps, the faintest hint of a smirk in Byleth’s eyes—though Claude couldn’t swear to it. And if he told anyone, Byleth would deny it with the same straight face they used to sign off on front-page exposés and expense reports.
They dismissed them both with a nod, and just like that, the meeting was over.
Claude nudged the office door open with his hip, holding it long enough for Dimitri to pass through. “Alright, tour time. Prepare to be dazzled by the best poorly lit, overcaffeinated news operation in the city.”
Dimitri gave him a look of polite confusion. “I… will do my best.”
Claude smirked. “That’s the spirit.”
Lorenz's words appeared like punctuation—crisp, looming, and in the middle of everyone’s sentence. With a sniff sharp enough to cut glass, he said, “So the intern will be under Claude’s tutelage? I fear he will be taught to abuse semicolons and chase clickbait.”
Claude was halfway to saying something sharp and witty—but one glance at Dimitri’s earnest expression made him bite it back. He sipped his coffee instead, sighing like it physically hurt to behave. Claude gestured between the two. “Lorenz, our copyediting overlord and comma crusader. Dimitri, our new intern."
Dimitri, still holding his folder like a holy text, said earnestly, “Please don’t worry—I’ve already read the company style guide. Twice. Though I can't make any promises, I will try my best so mistakes won’t be made.”
Claude turned to Lorenz with a grin. “Hear that? Twice. He might actually be immune to my bad influence.”
Lorenz narrowed his eyes. “Unlikely. You’re a contagion.”
Claude beamed. “So you're saying I’m popular? I’m touched.”
Lorenz muttered something snide under his breath, which Claude ignored in favor of mock-saluting him as he led Dimitri away.
Claude ushered Dimitri toward the back of the bullpen, where Raphael was hoisting a lighting rig over his head like it weighed nothing—because for him, it didn’t. “Raph, meet Dimitri. New intern. I’d tell you not to crush him, but this one probably bench-presses typewriters for fun.”
Dimitri turned bright red, his posture stiffening as he looked anywhere but at Claude. “I assure you I’ve never lifted office equipment recreationally."
Raphael let out a hearty laugh. “You’re missing out, man!” He slapped Dimitri on the back—gently for him.
Claude’s eyes widened in reflexive panic. The last intern had nearly gone airborne from one of Raphael’s ‘gentle’ slaps.
Dimitri, however, didn’t so much as flinch. Like he secretly had a suit of armor hidden under his dress shirt.
Claude gave a low whistle, glancing between Raphael and Dimitri. “Another lawsuit narrowly avoided. Last intern went airborne. We had to call legal and HR.”
Dimitri blinked at Claude, clearly mortified. “I… will endeavor not to require either department.”
Turning back to Raphael with a soft smile. “Though I don’t lift office equipment recreationally, I do stay active. Weight training helps maintain physical discipline.” He said it with the solemnity of someone reporting a sacred oath, and Claude had to bite his tongue to keep from grinning.
Claude blinked. “Really? And here I thought the human skyscraper just absorbed protein powder through osmosis.”
Raphael brightened even more. “You hit the gym? You gotta come lift with me sometime—there’s a place two blocks down, open twenty-four hours. Good benches. Great vending machines.”
Dimitri nodded once, completely serious. “I would like that. Thank you.”
Claude blinked. “Well. That was fast.” He sipped his coffee, side-eying them both. “I'm sure I'll find you two doing protein shake taste tests by next week.”
He paused, eyes gleaming. “Actually… that’s not bad. Maybe I pitch it as a lifestyle piece. ‘Lens Bros Rank Derdriu’s Most Disgusting Protein Shakes.’ Could go viral.”
Hilda perked up from across the bullpen, eyes sparkling. “Now that’s the kind of video content I can get behind. Get the intern flexing and Raphael taste-testing mystery sludge? People would eat it up.”
Claude chuckled, turning to his friend. “I’m just glad someone else in here thinks as diabolically as I do.” He then gestured between Dimitri and her with his coffee. “Dimitri, meet Hilda—social media sorceress, chaos coordinator, and queen of engagement metrics.
Dimitri looked vaguely horrified, wearing an expression that was equal parts polite and mildly alarmed by what he'd just walked into. “It’s a pleasure to meet you—though I must say I don’t believe I would be well-suited for marketing campaigns.”
Claude gave him a sidelong glance. “You say that like your biceps alone wouldn’t drive impressions.”
Dimitri coughed politely into his fist. “That’s… kind of you to say. Though I promise you, I’m far too uninteresting to be on camera.”
Hilda snorted. “Okay, Disney-prince looks and crippling humility? He’s a total himbo.”
Dimitri blinked. “What… is a ‘himbo’?”
Claude choked on his coffee, nearly inhaling it as he led Dimitri away. “Don’t ask. Just know it’s not an insult.”
Next was Ignatz, still absorbed in his tablet. Claude tapped the edge of his desk. “Iggy, meet Dimitri.”
Ignatz looked up, eyes wide. “Oh! Hi. Sorry—I’m just tweaking the light balance on this photo. Look.”
He turned the screen toward them, revealing a dramatically backlit shot of the Blue Lion mid-leap between two rooftops, cape flaring behind him like a storm.
Claude whistled low. “Damn, Iggy. That’s art.”
Dimitri stiffened slightly beside him, gaze lingering on the image for a beat too long.
Claude raised a brow, tucking that reaction away with all the others. “You a fan?”
Dimitri blinked, then cleared his throat. “He is… admirable.”
He said it too quickly, too neutrally. Claude glanced at him—Dimitri’s expression was blank, but the way Dimitri’s eyes had lingered on the image—tense, thoughtful—was telling. Like he recognized the man in the picture a little too well. Or maybe wanted to.
Claude filed it under 'questions to ask during a team happy hour'.
Leonie didn’t bother looking up from her scanner when they approached. “If he runs, I’m not chasing him.”
Dimitri blinked. “I would never cause such trouble, I assure you.”
Claude raised an eyebrow. “Not unless you’re hiding a second job as a jewel thief.”
Dimitri’s brows pulled together, mildly offended. “Certainly not. I would never resort to such dishonorable means.”
He turned to Dimitri with a wink. “Don’t worry, Boy Scout—no one here would actually assume you’re a jewel thief. Sir Knight, maybe. Jewel thief? Never.”
Claude turned back to his brash colleague with theatrical innocence. “That’s okay. He probably runs laps around your cardio anyway.”
He said it just to rile her up—because really, he was the only one who could get away with teasing Leonie’s pride without losing a limb—and by the twitch of her brow, it was working.
Leonie snorted. “Yeah? Let me know when he outruns a purse snatcher in heels.”
Dimitri blinked, then tilted his head. “That’s… impressive. I imagine few could manage such a feat with dignity intact.”
Leonie glanced up at him, just briefly. She didn’t smile exactly, but the line of her shoulders eased.
Marianne glanced over from her corner, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “Welcome.” She’d clearly sensed the mounting tension and stepped in with soft timing, her voice a gentle interruption that somehow stilled the air. It worked—Leonie eased back again, and even Claude dialed his grin down half a notch. Her desk, tucked away beneath a curtain of ivy and potted herbs, looked more like a greenhouse than a workstation. A vine curled along the divider behind her, blooming faint purple—Claude wasn’t sure if it was natural or some plant magic, but either way, he wasn’t touching it.
Dimitri blinked, clearly unsure whether to reply or continue to stare at the horticultural throne. “Thank you. Your workspace is… very serene.”
Claude leaned in. “So is Marianne—right up until her advice column guts you with poetic grace. You’ve been warned.”
Marianne turned back to her work as Claude and Dimitri walked over to the last colleague in the room.
He gestured toward Dimitri, who had been quietly taking in the chaos with wide-eyed focus. “And last but certainly never least, this is Lysithea, junior editor, reigning champion of deadlines and overall sugar fiend. Lysithea, say hi to Dimitri.”
Lysithea gave him a long look—up, then way up. The top of her head barely reached his sternum.
Lysithea squinted up at him, unimpressed. “What’s the weather like up there? Or do you need a customs form to interact with us ground-level folks?”
Claude smirked. “Says the gremlin who needs a stepladder to reach the top shelf in the break room.”
Lysithea immediately bristled, eyes narrowing like she was calculating the velocity required to launch her stapler across the room.
“Say that again and I’m putting laxatives in your coffee again,” she snapped.
Claude went pale. “You said that was almond milk.”
Dimitri, ever earnest, jumped in, “If you ever require assistance retrieving something from the top shelf, please do not hesitate to call upon me. It’s the least I can do. After all, I believe assisting with such office tasks falls squarely within the intern's job description.”
Lysithea blinked, momentarily caught off guard. She looked Dimitri up and down, bristling faintly as if his existence offended her sense of logic. Then she turned to Claude with narrowed eyes. “Is he real? Like, medically?"
Claude gave a shrug and a wink.
Lysithea gave Dimitri a once-over, then nodded with a donut still in hand. “At least he’s polite. That’s already an upgrade from the last intern.”
Claude grinned. “Give me time. I’m sure I’ll ruin him.”
He reached past Lysithea and plucked the last two donuts from her box before she could react, taking a smug bite as he ushered Dimitri away. “Consider this an intern tax,” he called over his shoulder.
“Hey!” Lysithea shouted.
Claude gave her a lazy wave. “All that sugar will stunt your growth, you know.”
He winked at Dimitri. “ Around here, survival means staying caffeinated, alert, and at least five feet ahead of Lysithea when you’re stealing her snacks.”
Claude took a smug bite of one donut and handed the second to Dimitri like it was contraband.
He accepted the offered donut with a quiet "Thank you," cradling it like it was some sacred badge of initiation. Claude watched him, amused and curious.
“Well, that’s the gang—a rowdy bunch, but wouldn't have it any other way." He gestured at the chaos like a proud parent.
"Any questions so far?”
Dimitri straightened again. “No. I am… slowly acclimating.”
Claude felt the corners of his mouth tugging into a grin he couldn’t quite suppress.
“This is going to be a fun year.”
Claude was intrigued—amused by the formal posture, the crisp tone, the way Dimitri looked like he was one awkward metaphor away from combusting. There was something oddly compelling about it, something that made Claude want to poke, prod, and see just how many layers of politeness hid underneath all that polished discomfort.
“C’mon,” he said, clapping a hand on Dimitri’s back—gently, curiosity fully piqued after witnessing the Raphael slap incident. He expected resistance, maybe even a little recoil. Instead, his palm met something that felt less like a shoulder blade and more like a slab of sculpted stone.
Claude blinked, eyebrows rising. Okay, so it hadn’t just been the lighting earlier. That was solid. Like, steel-beam-under-a-button-down solid. Like the kind of build that didn’t happen by accident. Okay, so maybe it wasn’t just the lighting, or the suit, or the tie somehow enhancing his gravity. Dimitri was quietly jacked—and now Claude had even more questions.
“Let’s get you a desk before someone tries to recruit you to write horoscopes,” he added, recovering quickly.
Dimitri nodded, following. He didn’t say much. Claude didn’t mind—there was only enough room for one loudmouth around here, and he had the job covered.
And besides, Claude had a whole year to chip away at the mystery that was Dimitri Blaiddyd little by little—no need to rush the fun.