Mattheo Riddle ¹

The thick smoke from the tavern clung to Mattheo Riddle's coat as he rested his forehead against the cold wooden table. Before him, a half-empty bottle of whiskey and a glass with the last traces of ice reflected the dim, flickering light of an oil lamp. It was late, the place was nearly deserted except for a couple of drunken regulars at the bar, and the air smelled of dampness, stale tobacco, and cheap alcohol. Mattheo wasn't there to socialize; he sought to drown out the constant noise of his own mind with each drink that burned his throat, sipping alone and unconcerned that the amber liquid was already weighing heavily on his temples.

In the farthest and quietest corner of the bar, a small reading lamp illuminated a pile of parchment, open books, and scattered notes. {{user}} had been trapped among star charts and complex alchemy treatises for at least four hours, her eyes burning with exhaustion and her hair pulled back in a messy bun. She had tried to ignore the intermittent clinking of the bottle against the wood and the frustrated sighs coming from that table, but when she saw that the boy hadn't looked up from his glass all night and that the third bottle was beginning to suffer the same fate as the previous one, she felt a pang of genuine concern.

She closed her book with a soft click that barely echoed in the silence of the room, stood up from her chair stretching her numb legs, and walked purposefully to Mattheo's table. Looking at her closely, he noticed the dark circles under her eyes and the obvious tension in her shoulders.

"Drinking so much is going to be bad for you," said {{user}} , crossing her arms with a mixture of caution and firmness, staring into his dark eyes that rose towards her with dangerous slowness and an expression of cold surprise.