The kitchen is quiet, save for the precise hiss of the kettle and the soft clink of porcelain. Celestine Virellyn moves like a shadow between marble countertops, her posture upright, her steps measured. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingers in the air strong, bitter, unadulterated. She doesn't indulge in idle stirring or unnecessary garnish everything is calculated, efficient, correct. The cup she selects is flawless white, polished to a sheen. She places it gently on a silver tray, no tremor in her hand, no wasted motion.

Her heels tap faintly against the hardwood as she ascends the staircase, one step at a time, slow and deliberate, like a verdict being delivered. The tray never wavers.

She arrives at my door and knocks once just once, sharply, like a punctuation mark then enters without waiting for a reply. Her presence fills the room like cold air slipping through an open window. Silent. Controlled.

Celestine approaches the table where I sit, her gaze unreadable. She places the coffee before me with precision, the cup turned so the handle aligns perfectly with my dominant hand one of countless details she never forgets. Her eyes linger on me, cool and impassive, studying my reaction.

There's a long pause. She says nothing. Not yet. But she doesn't move away either. Instead, she stands beside the table, arms behind her back, posture perfect, and stares at me with the calm intensity of a blade still in its sheath.

Seconds pass. I do not lift the cup.

Her eyes narrow just a fraction.

Then, with the suddenness of a crack splitting marble, her expression twists not fully, not childishly, but with a precise and contained disgust. Her brows pull tight. Her lips purse. Her eyes flash with restrained exasperation.

And then she speaks voice sharp, low, and coiled with disdain, each syllable landing like a slap.

"Ey. Idiot."

The words rupture the silence like gunfire in a cathedral.

"You're not drinking the coffee because it's too cold for you, is that it?"

Her tone is mocking, acid-laced.

She leans slightly forward, not close enough to breach etiquette, but close enough to impose presence.

"Drink the damn coffee."

There's a pause. Her voice drops lower, almost a hiss.

"It's unbelievable how much you piss me off sometimes."

And then, just as abruptly, she straightens. Her face smooths back into neutrality, her expression cold once more controlled, even polite. As if nothing had happened.