Over the last few days, Gideon's attitude toward Mia had undergone a complete 360° inversion.

It began with the morning commute. Gideon suddenly volunteered—with a fervor that bordered on mania—to take over the task of scourting Mia to her job at the Time City Gallery.

Mia tried to decline, but Gideon was immovable. She could only sigh inwardly. The gallery was so close to the hospital that the walk took Mia exactly ten minutes through a scenic side path. But now, with Gideon behind the wheel, the commute involved detours, red lights, and gridlock. A ten-minute stroll had been transformed into a forty-minute ordeal.

Furthermore, Gideon's psychological state was in a state of high-alert fluctuation. Every time he glanced at Mia in the rearview mirror, he seemingly hallucinated Damien's cold, ivory face, which caused him to slam on the accelerator when he meant to hit the brake. The danger level of their morning drive spiked magnificently, attracting the attention of several predatory traffic officers.

As it happened, the city was currently in the middle of a massive crackdown on DUI and reckless driving. Gideon was fined, invited out of the car for "discussions," and forced to blow into a breathalyzer more than once.

Sitting in the passenger seat, Mia watched the minutes tick away. She was going to be late again. She had the words for a protest, but seeing Gideon's pained, sweat-beaded expression, she kept them to herself. He means well, she thought, surely I can endure this until we reach the gallery.

She didn't realize that the commute was only the beginning.

Once Mia arrived at Time City, she went to the locker room to change into her docent uniform. When she emerged, she found Gideon Vance—a man who spent his life in a world of "localized war" and systematic liquidation—wandering aimlessly through the exhibits.

Mia was profoundly shaken.

It wasn't that she looked down on Gideon's cultural literacy, but there was a jarring, visceral dissonance in seeing a man of his violent caliber soaking in high art.

One might wonder: if Damien and Julian were also men of violence, why did they look so natural in a gallery? The truth was, as the head of the Syndicate, Damien was hardly a "good soul." But the universe was profoundly unfair; it had favored Damien with a deceptive, devastatingly beautiful exterior. Every time Damien stood before a masterpiece, the crowds stopped looking at the art and started looking at him.

Gideon, however, was a different breed. His appearance aligned perfectly with Kitten's childhood aesthetic. During her younger years, Kitten had been obsessed with "power-type" men—like the local brawny guy from her village who carried a massive wood-chopping blade. To Kitten, a man with bulging muscles and a "rough-and-tumble" aura was the pinnacle of masculinity. (It was a testament to Julian's skill that he had managed to lure her into his nest, given that he was the opposite of her "Strong! Man! Brawny!" standard).

Gideon Vance was that Strong Man. And seeing that Strong Man attempt a "refined, cultured" persona was an experience that felt like a fever dream.

But a guest was a guest. Gideon walked up to the counter and, without a word, slapped down a gold card and paid for a VIP membership. Now a "distinguished guest," he had a legitimate reason to spend the entire day at Mia's side.

Finally, Mia couldn't take it anymore.

"Mr. Vance, what exactly are you doing?"

Gideon gave her a reserved, strained smile. "I have recently... developed an interest in European art. I wish to engage in a... mutual exchange of ideas with you."

"..."

Mia had to use every ounce of her Cambridge-bred discipline to keep her face from twitching. The gallery director had already whispered in her ear that this Mr. Vance was spending an obscene amount of "bright, white silver," so she had to treat him with the utmost care.

And so, the "artistic exchange" began. Gideon was enthusiastic; Mia was on the verge of a breakdown.

The dialogue went roughly as follows:

"Hahaha! Mia! I know this one! This is the famous Dutch masterpiece, The Starry Night! By Van Gogh!"

"It isn't..." Mia whispered. "This isn't the sky. It's a pumpkin patch."

"..."

"Furthermore," she added gently, "Van Gogh's Starry Night is in the Museum of Modern Art in New York. It is impossible for it to be here."

Gideon rubbed his chin, looking deep in thought. "Ah, your reminder brings it back to me. This must be the legendary... Post-Impressionism!"

"No... this is clearly standard Realism."

"..."

Please, do not laugh. For an artistic illiterate to attempt such a conversation requires commendable courage.

Gideon immediately tried to salvage the situation. "Mia, you are truly a scholar! So much erudition!"

"It's not erudition," she said, looking quite embarrassed. "It's basic common sense."

Gideon's first day as a connoisseur was a failure. Mia let out a massive sigh of relief when he left, professionally telling him, "We look forward to your next visit."

The next morning, he was back.

Mia's eyes went wide as Gideon's silhouette appeared in the doorway again. I was just being polite, Gideon, she thought, a cold sweat breaking across her neck.

Whether he truly didn't see her reluctance or was simply ignoring it, Gideon was determined to discuss art. Mia was a patient woman, and she could have handled the bad critiques, but a few days later, a new problem arose.

Mia's job was, essentially, a service role. VIP clients often had differing opinions on art. In Mia's world, a spirited debate between two people who loved art was a joy.

But in Gideon's eyes, it was a declaration of war.

Are you people tired of living?! his expression seemed to scream. The Sovereign's woman is personally explaining this to you and you have the audacity to disagree?! This is an insult to the Lancaster name! I should liquidate you all right now!

Mia's patience finally hit its limit. She grabbed the back of Gideon's collar and dragged him toward the exit.

"You—"

She opened her mouth to scold him, but seeing his face—sour as a bitter melon—she softened.

"I've been trying so hard," Gideon grumbled, looking genuinely aggrieved. "I borrowed over a hundred art history books from Julian this week. I've been up all night memorizing them..."

"..."

Mia wondered if everyone in the Lancaster Syndicate was... this "magical." She used to think Kitten was strange for carrying a book of political quotes to recite, but Gideon had surpassed her.

"Why would you memorize all that?" she asked.

"To talk to you!" Gideon shot back. He found her magical too—a twenty-first-century woman who lived like she had just stepped out of a Victorian novel. Talking to her was exhausting work.

Mia, being far from stupid, decided to lay everything on the table. "Is there something you need from me, Gideon? If there is, please just tell me. Don't... don't desecrate the sacred arts anymore."

Gideon suddenly burst into tears.

He had no other options. He had already gone to Julian and Alistair, but those two men had formed an unprecedented united front of indifference. They viewed Gideon's plight with a "save yourself" attitude. When it came to Damien's private affairs, staying out of it was the only strategy for survival.

Gideon grabbed Mia's hand.

"Mia... I was wrong. I know I was wrong! Can you forgive me? Can you please go to the Sovereign and beg for mercy?"

"...What did he do to you?"

"He's sending me for labor reform," Gideon wailed. "And he says I have to complete every single humanities and art history course you've ever taken while I'm on that godforsaken island!"

"..."

Gideon sobbed in sincere repentance. "I can handle the labor reform! But asking a man with a degree in Weapons Engineering to study art history... There's huge barrier!"