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The soft hum of Sumeru City drifted through the tree-lined stone paths, weaving between the rhythm of footsteps and the rustle of leaves stirred by a gentle morning breeze. The late sun filtered through the emerald canopy in shafts of light that danced across sandstone and marble, gilding the world in gold.
For once, miraculously, the world had paused just long enough for them to catch their breath.
No academic emergencies. No forest incidents. No arrests. No lecture ambushes. No students banging on doors at dawn, no last-minute summons from sages, and no bureaucratic nightmares involving footnotes and field permits.
Just four overworked, overtired men walking in companionable silence—well, mostly silence—toward the House of Daena.
Kaveh was the only one talking, his gestures as animated as his voice. “You know, I designed that building,” he said proudly, pointing toward a domed sandstone structure with elegant stone tracery and hanging lanterns that glinted like low stars. “Back when I was working on urban symmetry projects. See the curvature there? The arches mimic local flora—deliberate asymmetry to reflect natural imperfection, while the overall balance holds the entire frame in harmony. A blend of order and chaos. Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Alhaitham, walking just ahead of him and reading a book with practiced precision, didn’t look up. “You’ve told us that six times.”
“Have I?” Kaveh blinked innocently, then shrugged. “Well, some truths are worth repeating.”
“You say that about your debts too,” Alhaitham muttered, flipping a page.
“Please. I paid off half this month.”
“That’s still half unpaid.”
“Symbolically, I’m halfway there,” Kaveh said with a smile. “Besides, you benefit from my aesthetic presence in your home.”
“I benefit from noise pollution and stray sawdust.”
Tighnari cut in before the conversation could spiral further into its usual spiral of passive sniping. “Can we at least reach the café without another round of financial philosophy?”
“I’m not being passive-aggressive,” Kaveh said, folding his arms. “I’m being actively correct.”
Cyno, bringing up the rear with arms crossed and his cloak swaying behind him like a curtain of judgment, said flatly, “Three minutes. That’s how long the peace lasted.”
Tighnari’s tail flicked behind him in a subtle twitch of irritation. “I had money on four.”
But the truth was—they didn’t really mind.
This rhythm, for all its thorns and barbs, had become something familiar. Kaveh’s dramatic flourishes and architectural monologues. Alhaitham’s dry wit and dismissal of anything unnecessary. Cyno’s stone-faced sarcasm that only grew more confusing the more he meant it. Tighnari’s sighs, head-shakes, and reluctant parental energy.
They weren’t four compatible puzzle pieces. They were four overworked professionals who somehow found an odd comfort in being around people who understood what exhaustion looked like in each other.
The café they’d agreed on sat on a quiet terrace tucked into a bend in the canal, shaded by flowering vines and golden canopy. A low hum of conversation drifted from nearby tables, but the atmosphere was serene. The furniture was carved from warm wood, the cushions deep and faded with use, and the air smelled faintly of rosewater and cinnamon.
They took their usual spot, a four-seater facing the water. Kaveh immediately flung himself into a seat with exaggerated relief, one hand over his chest like a fainting noble. Alhaitham chose the seat across from him, already reopening his book. Cyno and Tighnari took the sides, exchanging tired nods like veterans in a temporary ceasefire.
Drinks were ordered—tea for Cyno, something sweet and floral for Kaveh, a black blend for Alhaitham, and herbal infusion for Tighnari.
And for a moment, just a moment, peace.
It was perfect.
For about five minutes.
Until someone broke it.
“General Mahamatra!”
The voice rang out too brightly, too enthusiastically—sharp enough to slice through the serene lull of their morning.
Cyno’s shoulders stiffened before he even turned around. He knew that voice. Eager, breathless, and catastrophically earnest.
A junior matra—barely six weeks out of training, all nerves and ambition—was barreling toward him at full speed. His boots skidded slightly on the polished stone as he came to an abrupt halt beside their table, sweat beading along his temple, clutching a scroll like it might detonate.
“Sir, thank the Archons! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! There’s an incident in the archives—someone left a satchel unattended near the restricted wing. It’s old, kind of worn, possibly tampered with—our working theory is a decoy or a smuggler’s drop, but one of the analysts thinks it might contain—”
“No,” Cyno said flatly, not even turning his head.
The recruit blinked. “I—I’m sorry?”
“No,” Cyno repeated, more slowly, taking a long sip from his tea. “Try again tomorrow.”
“But, sir! You always say vigilance is key. You said—and I quote—‘A half-asleep matra is a half-buried nation.’”
“I did say that,” Cyno admitted. “In my defense, it was a particularly long staff meeting and I needed to keep everyone awake.”
The recruit scrambled. “Still! You always tell us to be thorough. You said, ‘True danger walks with subtle steps.’”
“Yes,” Cyno said mildly. “And also, ‘Sometimes a bag is just a bag.’ Which I said after you arrested a spice merchant for carrying cumin in a brown paper wrap.”
“Protocol says—”
“Protocol,” Cyno interrupted, placing his cup back on the saucer with deliberate care, “is a guide, not a prophecy. Unless the satchel is glowing, ticking, emitting spores, whispering forbidden incantations, or audibly calling my name in a demonic voice, then it is not my problem.”
The junior matra hesitated. “But… what if it’s an elaborate trap?”
“What if it’s someone’s lunch?”
The poor recruit looked between them like someone stranded on the wrong end of an exam question. His mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Sir, with all due respect, you’re the General Mahamatra. Your judgment supersedes—”
“My judgment says I am drinking jasmine tea with three insufferable men who I actually chose to spend time with. That means it’s my day off. If you want further instructions, I suggest you consult my twin brother.”
“…Sir, you don’t have a twin brother.”
Cyno gave him a long, deadpan look. “Exactly.”
At that, Tighnari chuckled quietly into his cup. “He means you’re doing fine,” he added, voice warm but firm. “Handle it yourself. It’s a good test of your instincts.”
“But I—”
“You found him in a moving crowd, during a non-work hour, and approached with your observations and a backup theory,” Tighnari continued. “That’s good judgment. Don’t let anxiety ruin it.”
That, finally, seemed to land. The recruit straightened up, nodding quickly. “Yes, sir! Understood, sir!”
He bowed a little too deeply, spun on his heel, and practically fled down the stone path—only to nearly collide with a fruit cart, yelp, apologize profusely, and keep running.
Cyno watched him disappear, then turned back to his tea. He sighed into the rim of the cup. “Why did I train them so well?”
“Because you’re responsible,” Tighnari said without looking up.
“And because no one else would do it right,” Alhaitham added, casually flipping a page.
“You should try being less competent,” Kaveh said through a mouthful of flaky pastry. “Once people think you’re incapable of leadership, you never get bothered again.”
“I’d rather commit to my own downfall,” Cyno replied.
“You already have,” Alhaitham said. “You joined us this morning.”
“Besides,” Cyno continued smoothly, “if I lower the bar, who’ll make the jokes?”
“You always make jokes,” Kaveh said, exasperated. “The problem is you think they’re good.”
“I do both,” Cyno said, reaching calmly for his spoon. “Would you like to hear a joke now?”
Kaveh paused mid-bite. “No.”
“Too late,” Cyno replied. “Why don’t they let dendro researchers into fancy restaurants?”
“Cyno, I swear—”
“Because they always bring something spore-adic to the table.”
Alhaitham didn’t flinch. Tighnari made a noise suspiciously like a choked laugh.
Kaveh stared. “That was terrible.”
“Terribly clever,” Cyno corrected.
“I’m begging you,” Kaveh said dramatically, “go back to being terrifying. You were more tolerable when you threatened people with prison sentences.”
“That can be arranged,” Cyno said, serene.
“See?” Kaveh pointed at him. “That tone. That’s the one.”
“I was promised a peaceful morning,” Cyno muttered into his tea again. “No fugitives, no paperwork, no lectures.”
“You got a speech from a croissant enthusiast instead,” Alhaitham said without looking up.
“That sounds like a crime.”
“I’m an artist, not a criminal!” Kaveh gasped.
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive,” Cyno said.
Kaveh opened his mouth—paused, squinted suspiciously. “Wait… was that a joke?”
Cyno didn’t answer.
He took another sip of tea.
Tighnari smiled behind his cup. Alhaitham turned another page.
Kaveh, flustered but secretly pleased, muttered, “I hate it when he’s funnier than me.”
They managed to admire most of the architecture exhibit before drifting toward the Grand Bazaar, led—unsurprisingly—by Kaveh. He insisted it would spark inspiration for his next project, though everyone suspected the real motivation was trawling for ornament ideas and loudly critiquing tile choices.
“This stall uses way too much blue,” Kaveh said, gesturing toward a lamp vendor with layered indigo glass. “You need contrast. Contrast!”
Alhaitham, walking a few steps behind, didn’t even glance up from the new book he had begun reading mid-walk. “Do you ever take in your surroundings silently?”
“Do you ever enjoy things like a normal person?” Kaveh shot back.
“I do,” Alhaitham said. “That’s why I’m reading instead of listening to you.”
Cyno, at the rear of the group, instinctively scanned the crowd with each turn of the street. His posture never truly relaxed—even on an off day, he moved like a soldier expecting trouble to spring from the shadows.
Tighnari walked beside Kaveh, watching their surroundings with a different kind of scrutiny. Less for criminals and more for hazardous plants, unsupervised wildlife, or—worse—his students.
They hadn’t been there more than ten minutes when Tighnari heard it.
“Master Tighnari!”
He didn’t even turn around. “No.”
But he recognized the voice immediately.
It was Fadil. One of his more… enthusiastic protégés. A bright student with enough ambition to rival an Akademiya researcher twice his age, but absolutely no concept of environmental context. Fadil could find a mushroom growing on the edge of a ruin and decide it needed to be examined on the spot, regardless of whether or not they were surrounded by monsters, rainfall, or wedding processions.
“Master, you have to see this!” Fadil skidded to a halt in front of them, nearly colliding with Kaveh, who had to step back to avoid getting side-slung by a satchel.
“I found these near Mawtiyima Forest! I was doing a solo sweep after the last rainfall and—look!” With too much enthusiasm and far too little caution, Fadil opened the pouch hanging from his belt and proudly held up three lumpy, spotted mushrooms, their caps faintly pulsating.
One of them released a faint, shimmering mist.
“Is that… spore gas?” Kaveh recoiled with a gag.
Tighnari’s eyes widened. “Oh no—”
And then the scent hit them. Wet moss, sulfur, and something metallic—like blood and old water soaked into rotting wood. The entire group recoiled almost in sync.
Alhaitham gagged audibly and took two swift steps back. “What is that?!”
“Defense mechanism,” Tighnari choked out, already covering his nose with a sleeve. “A natural response to physical agitation. Mildly toxic. Mostly just awful.”
Cyno pulled his cloak up to his face. “You brought active spores to a bazaar?”
“It’s for research!” Fadil said defensively. “You always said real research happens in the field!”
“Yes,” Tighnari growled, “but I also said not to bring the field into crowded public spaces! There are children here, Fadil. Fruit vendors. People trying to breathe.”
“But I thought you’d want to test the potency of its olfactory signatures immediately! Exposure to ambient heat might increase reaction volatility, which could give us new data—”
“I want you to survive long enough to defend your thesis.”
Fadil blinked. “So… no ambient testing?”
“Absolutely not. Take it back to the lab. Seal it properly. And if I catch you unsupervised with another active fungus in a commercial district, I will personally ban you from solo fieldwork for the rest of the term.”
Fadil looked like a kicked puppy. “Should I… take it back now?”
“Yes. And seal it. And yourself. Preferably for twenty-four hours. With charcoal filters.”
“…Right.” Fadil shuffled away, muttering something about misunderstood genius and olfactory thresholds as he disappeared into the crowd.
Silence hung in the air for a moment—well, as silent as one could get in the Grand Bazaar, but it was the kind of pause that came from collective trauma.
Tighnari pressed two fingers to his temple. “They always remember the one offhand comment about ‘field initiative’ and forget the ten pages I wrote about containment and sample transport.”
“You’re raising little yous,” Cyno said, not without a trace of amusement.
Tighnari made a strangled sound in his throat. “Don’t you dare suggest that.”
“It’s true,” Alhaitham said, still looking disgusted. “They talk too much, handle dangerous substances with reckless optimism, and ignore common sense in the pursuit of knowledge. They even use your metaphors.”
“They’re nothing like me,” Tighnari said firmly.
“I don’t know,” Kaveh added, waving his hand through the lingering cloud. “This one might be worse. At least you never gassed a fruit stand.”
“I might now,” Alhaitham muttered.
“I smell like regret,” Kaveh groaned, dramatically fanning himself with his sash. “This is what I get for walking among the common crowd.”
“You’re the one who dragged us here,” Cyno reminded him.
“I thought there would be rugs. Not biological warfare.”
Tighnari sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Let’s move before the next crisis finds us.”
“Lead the way, Mushroom Dad,” Kaveh snickered.
“Say that again and I’ll feed you a vision-disrupting spore.”
No sooner had Kaveh resumed cooing over mosaic glass trinkets than a voice rang out.
“Master Kaveh! Perfect timing—I was just about to send for you!”
Kaveh froze mid-step, one hand hovering over a polished blue lantern. A thousand-yard stare overtook his expression, and his entire body deflated like a forgotten balloon.
“Oh no,” he whispered. “Not him. Not now. Not while I was almost happy.”
The others turned as a man in an embroidered saffron coat bustled toward them, scroll under one arm, sweat on his brow, and desperation radiating from every fiber of his being. His steps were uneven, clumsy with urgency, and he practically skid to a stop in front of them, nearly taking out a small child with a juice cup.
“Master Kaveh, your timing is truly blessed!” the man said, puffing with exertion. “I just finished reviewing your plans for the atrium—brilliant, of course, brilliant work—but I’ve had a vision! An epiphany! A design breakthrough!”
He unfurled the scroll mid-bazaar like a proclamation from the Archons themselves, accidentally knocking over a nearby fruit stall in the process. Oranges rolled into the crowd like fleeing witnesses.
Kaveh didn’t move. His expression went flat with horror. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
The client barely noticed. “What if—just hear me out—we added a fountain in the center of the atrium? Something bold. Dynamic. Loud. Splashy! Something that sings, you know?”
Kaveh blinked. “You want to put a splashing fountain in an acoustic study hall.”
“Yes! It would be poetic! Symbolic! The fluidity of knowledge, the motion of thought—don’t you think?”
“No,” Kaveh said instantly. “Because it’s also symbolic of distraction, water damage, and auditory collapse.”
“Don’t be so rigid,” the client insisted, stepping closer and practically jabbing at the scroll. “You’re the Light of Kshahrewar! Surely a few tweaks aren’t beyond your genius. A visionary like you can pivot, right?”
Kaveh inhaled very slowly through his nose. “You hired me to create a space that cultivates silence, reflection, and uninterrupted focus. Not a hydrotherapy center.”
“But imagine it!” the client said, eyes alight with manic energy. “We could widen the arches, add more natural lighting—perhaps a skylight over the fountain! Maybe even swap the floor for colored glass? Something dramatic!”
“That’s not how acoustics work,” Kaveh snapped. “That’s not how buildings work. That’s not how I work.”
“It’s all just inspiration, you see! Creative synergy! I was hoping we could sketch some of it out now—”
“Now?” Kaveh hissed. “In the middle of the Grand Bazaar? While I’m buying a wind chime and trying to rest my soul?”
The man blinked. “Well… you were here, and I thought…”
Alhaitham, who had been quietly standing beside Kaveh like a stone pillar with perfect posture, finally looked up from his book.
“Perhaps,” he said, voice calm but cutting, “this discussion would be better suited for a formal meeting. Not a market square surrounded by fruit vendors, children, and flammable tents.”
The client looked around, suddenly registering the crowd that had begun to form and the fact that he was currently holding an open scroll over a basket of dried dates. “Ah. Well, yes. I suppose this is a bit—”
“You’re disturbing the peace,” Cyno said, stepping forward with arms folded, gaze flat and unimpressed.
“It’s just a design consultation!”
“Without an appointment.”
“It’s urgent! Visionary! A moment of architectural clarity—”
“You’re seconds away from becoming a cautionary tale about unsolicited revisions,” Cyno warned, voice dry as a sun-scorched canyon.
Tighnari gave a polite cough. “Unless you’d like your fountain installed in a holding cell, I’d suggest walking away now.”
The man paled. “Right. Of course. I’ll, uh… follow up through proper channels.”
He clumsily rolled up his scroll, bowed three times in increasingly awkward succession, and nearly tripped over a melon as he fled, blueprint flapping behind him like a cape of shame.
Kaveh groaned and slumped forward over the vendor’s counter. “I need a nap. And a vacation. And possibly a restraining order.”
“You need a firmer contract clause,” Alhaitham said without looking up again.
Kaveh didn’t move. “You want to revise my contracts? Be my guest.”
“No. I value my time.”
“I used to.”
Tighnari handed Kaveh a tissue from his satchel. “Here. For the tears of betrayed artistic integrity.”
“They’re not tears,” Kaveh muttered, dabbing his forehead. “They’re sweat. Rage sweat.”
“I thought that was a myth,” Cyno said.
“Oh, it’s real,” Kaveh sighed. “And it smells like wasted drafts and creative despair.”
“I’m familiar,” Alhaitham said under his breath.
Kaveh glared at Alhaitham. “You’re lucky I haven’t started charging you consulting fees for every passive-aggressive remark.”
Alhaitham didn’t look up. “You’re lucky I haven’t started invoicing you for emotional damage.”
Tighnari let out a long, suffering breath and rubbed his temples. “Can we please relocate before one of you weaponizes a fruit basket?”
Cyno tilted his head. “I know a place.”
Kaveh perked up, hopeful. “Does it have soundproof walls?”
“No,” Cyno replied. “But it has a lock. And I can enforce it.”
Alhaitham finally closed his book with a quiet snap. “Acceptable.”
Then came Alhaitham’s turn.
By now, the sun had dipped low, bathing the outer walls of the Akademiya in a soft amber glow. The crowd had thinned, and the breeze carried with it the hushed quiet of late afternoon. They were approaching the quieter edge of the market when Alhaitham, still flipping a page of his book, slowed subtly.
He didn’t say anything, but his shoulders tensed in that faint, unmistakable way the others had learned to recognize.
“I sense incoming students,” Cyno murmured without lifting his gaze.
Tighnari glanced up. “Spantamad robes. Brace yourselves.”
Kaveh groaned. “Why is it always Spantamad?”
“Because Alhaitham published a scathing critique of their last symposium,” Tighnari replied dryly.
“I was being generous,” Alhaitham said, not pausing his stride. “They deserved worse.”
“Acting Grand Sage!”
Alhaitham didn’t stop walking. “No.”
A group of four students came jogging toward them, their arms full of scrolls, notebooks, and frayed nerves.
“Please, just a moment! We’re drafting a symposium paper for Spantamad, and your thesis on elemental resonance is foundational—”
“You’re going to cite it incorrectly,” Alhaitham said without looking up.
“That’s why we need your review—just a glance, a paragraph, even a margin note would help—”
“We’re building our arguments on your model of layered ether spaces—”
Alhaitham exhaled and finally turned to face them.
“I’m not the Acting Grand Sage anymore. I’m not your reviewer, supervisor, or academic safety net. If your paper can’t stand without me personally guiding every line, it’s not ready to stand at all.”
“But we could send it to your office—your notes would be invaluable—”
Alhaitham’s voice remained even, but his gaze sharpened. “That’s my office as the Scribe. For my work. Not yours. And certainly not unsolicited manuscripts from overeager students who assume proximity equals permission.”
One of them hesitated. “We’re not trying to overstep. We just… you’re the standard. Everyone looks to you.”
“That’s unfortunate for all of you,” Alhaitham replied.
Another student tried again, hopeful. “Could we submit it formally for feedback through the archive board? Maybe get a peer review, and if you happen to glance at it—”
“If I see this paper come across my desk, I will flag it for academic dependency and lack of original thought,” he said coolly. “Is that clear?”
The group stiffened.
Kaveh winced slightly. “Harsh,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth. “You’ve got sharper edges than your bookshelf corners.”
“They were about to follow me home,” Alhaitham said, flipping a page in his book as if nothing had happened.
“Again?” Tighnari asked.
“This week makes three times. One even left fruit on my doorstep.”
“You should’ve eaten it,” Cyno said.
“I don’t trust food from people who write like footnotes.”
The students backed off, muttering apologies as they vanished back toward the main road, thoroughly defeated.
Cyno tilted his head. “You should threaten more people. It’s efficient.”
“I do,” Alhaitham said, already walking again.
Tighnari sighed. “Should we just go home before someone else mistakes us for an open seminar?”
“To my home,” Kaveh said with practiced speed.
Alhaitham raised an eyebrow. “You mean our home? You want to stay here instead?”
“…I’ll unlock the door.”
“I’ll bring tea,” Tighnari offered, voice light with tired humor.
“I’ll carry the silence,” Cyno added with a grunt.
Together, they turned away from the city’s noise—and toward the one place they wouldn’t be asked for anything at all.
The moment they crossed the threshold of the apartment, the tension in the air seemed to dissolve. The outside world, with all its noise, urgency, and chaos, was locked behind the door.
Kaveh kicked off his shoes with a sigh, letting them clatter messily against the wall. “Home, sweet aesthetically neglected home,” he declared, before dramatically flinging himself onto the couch like a prince collapsing on a fainting chaise.
Cyno peeled off his cloak and claimed the armchair like a throne—legs crossed, posture proud, but eyes tired. He leaned back with a low grunt and exhaled as if he’d finally sat down after years of standing guard.
Alhaitham, true to form, said nothing. He wordlessly walked to his favorite corner by the window, sat down cross-legged on the floor cushion, and cracked open the book he’d tucked under his arm the entire afternoon. His fingers settled into the familiar rhythm of flipping pages, as though the city’s distractions had never touched him.
Tighnari, ever the responsible one, was already in the kitchen. They heard the gentle clink of porcelain, the soft rush of water, and the faint scent of herbs blooming into the air as the kettle began to heat.
For the first time all day, no one spoke.
The silence was intentional, a shared breath between four men who had run dry on patience and energy, yet still found comfort in each other’s presence. The apartment hummed with a different kind of quiet. One that held no demands. One that asked for nothing but existence.
The ticking clock on the wall was louder than usual. Someone’s shoe creaked faintly against the floorboards. Outside, distant laughter from the street below echoed—but muffled, unintrusive. The light from the windows slanted gently against the floor, dust motes drifting lazily in its path.
“I knew we should’ve just stayed in,” Cyno muttered eventually, breaking the silence with a low grumble. He didn’t sound angry. Just… vindicated.
“I didn’t realize Sumeru had grown so clingy,” Kaveh replied from the couch, now curled up with a pillow under his chest, his legs tangled in a blanket he’d tugged over without ceremony. “Everywhere I turned it was ‘Kaveh, help me redesign my garden!’ or ‘Kaveh, you’re the Light of Kshahrewar, please fix this gazebo that looks like a fruit basket!’”
“Maybe if you didn’t keep telling people you’re available for commissions,” Alhaitham said without looking up, “they’d stop bothering you in public spaces.”
Kaveh snorted. “It’s called marketing, Alhaitham. Some of us don’t get to live off emotionless lecturing and a state salary.”
“Then don’t complain when your fame brings inconvenience.”
“I’m allowed to vent.”
“You’re allowed to be quiet.”
Kaveh scoffed. “I’ll be quiet the day you admit I’ve improved your quality of life.”
Alhaitham finally looked up from his book, gave him a long, withering stare, and said dryly, “I regret letting you live here.”
Kaveh didn’t miss a beat. “You offered.”
“I regret that too.”
Kaveh scowled into his pillow. “Remind me why I ever accepted.”
“Because you were broke and out of options.”
“Because I was emotionally vulnerable and you exploited it.”
Alhaitham turned another page. “Your definition of exploitation is suspiciously close to basic hospitality.”
Before Kaveh could come up with a counterargument involving moral bankruptcy and design aesthetics, Tighnari reemerged from the kitchen, balancing a wooden tray with four carefully arranged mugs, steam curling in gentle wisps from each cup.
“Chamomile for Kaveh,” he said, placing the floral-scented drink by the couch with practiced ease. “Black leaf for Alhaitham—extra strong. Ginger-mint for Cyno. And saffron root for me.”
“You’re a treasure,” Kaveh sighed, sitting upright just enough to cradle the mug in both hands. “Truly. I don’t deserve you.”
“No, you don’t,” Tighnari said mildly, taking his own seat on the rug beside Alhaitham’s window.
Kaveh raised his cup slightly, smiling. “To friends.”
“To silence,” Alhaitham said instantly.
“To sanity,” Cyno added.
Tighnari considered the curve of steam rising from his cup, then raised it with a small, soft smile. “To days off that didn’t go as planned… but ended better than expected.”
They clinked cups gently and drank.
Outside, the city rolled on—its streets still bustling, its buildings still leaning in to whisper gossip, its people still rushing toward somewhere. But none of that mattered now.
No one knocked. No one barged in. No students, no panicked assistants, no lost tourists begging for help, no scrolls shoved under their noses with deadlines scrawled in the margins. No wild mushrooms. No satchel-based false alarms. No lectures about ethics, architecture, or personal space.
Just four tired men, steeped in golden light and the smell of warm tea, letting the quiet settle into their bones like an overdue exhale.