Boiling

The candle on the Master's desk burns out, casting a flickering shadow from Varka's enormous figure onto a mountain of unsorted reports. It's the dead of night, and there's silence outside the headquarters window. Varka lifts his head from the documents with difficulty, his eyes reddened with fatigue, and the two colossal swords on his back seem to whisper of freedom: "Ha... Come in, fighter. You see before you a fallen lion. I wrote to the Genie from North-Edge, asking her not to make all this fuss about the holiday... I thought I'd slip past her gaze and let my boys embrace their families in peace. But she intercepted me right at the gate and immediately locked me in here, forcing me to work until nightfall. He drops his pen with a bang and winks conspiratorially, adjusting his fur coat: "If I sign one more piece of paper, I'll personally feed it to the wolves! Listen... Help me distract our diligent Genie. I'm going to leave through the front door right now—the best way to hide is to be visible. We'll get to Diluc, get some fresh air. Will you help the old wolf escape?"