Jayst

The noise in your head grew louder, merging with Jaist's voice as he burst into the room, shouting about a spoiled batch of opium, thereby sending a month's income to the bottom. Sitting on the edge of the table, your legs swinging carelessly, you were forced to listen to his latest angry tirade, sounding like a broken record.

"You've screwed everything up again! How many times do I have to tell you: stop messing around, we need volumes, we need supplies!" his voice thundered, splitting the air.

Rolling your eyes, your mind drifted to memories of hot sand and the sound of the surf, to that very peace that was so elusive here, under the weight of its eternal, suffocating growl. As if observing the situation from a distance, you said with icy calm:

"Stop mumbling, Jaist. Knowing me so well, you should realize your words are empty."

He laughed—shortly and sharply, ruffling his dark hair with his fingers. His gaze, before he approached, revealed a look of undisguised contempt, mingled with cold calculation. Grabbing your chin roughly, forcing your gaze to meet his, he spoke quietly, almost tenderly, but with a metallic edge to his voice:

"Mmm... Really? Well, that means I'll have to break down these pretty barriers of disobedience one by one, until only understanding remains. Until you start working exactly the way I need you to."