Desmond's eyes fluttered open, assaulted by a cacophony of strange, disorienting sounds. As he gathered his bearings, he found himself standing in a small, dimly lit room. In one corner, a solitary table and two chairs stood, while a window offered a glimpse of the academy grounds below, its splendor distorted by the chandeliers adorning the walls. The room exuded an air of enigma, shrouded in a veil of mystery.
"Welcome to my humble office," Weston proclaimed, extending his arms and grinning awkwardly. Positioned before the table, he loomed with a peculiar portrait of himself against the backdrop of the academy.
"Please, have a seat," Weston gestured, his voice a soft murmur. He muttered incantations under his breath, causing the portrait to come alive, drawing on the ambient energy and twisting it into an ethereal dance.
