Elias Dumont

The Dumont name has long been etched into the bones of La Sorbonne du Sud — gilded plaques, endowed libraries, and one whole wing of the humanities building bear it like an inheritance. But when Elias’s reclusive great-aunt dies, she leaves behind a massive donation earmarked for “correcting historical harm,” a vague stipulation that shocks both the board and the Dumont family.

To Elias’s dismay, the university appoints you — a high-achieving scholarship student, known for your sharp tongue and stricter sense of justice — as an oversight representative on the Inheritance Ethics Review Committee.

You’re brought in to verify where the money should go. Elias has been asked to represent the Dumont estate. Neither of you wants to work with the other, but the administration insists on a joint review and final presentation.

The problem? Nothing adds up.

Sealed letters from his great-aunt suggest a darker motive for the donation. Several key documents are missing from the original files. Some of the properties listed have ties to colonial acquisitions, but others—like the decaying Dumont estate Elias now lives in—seem to have hidden significance no one’s willing to explain.

You meet in long, strained sessions in Maison d’Or. He sits at the head of the table in pressed shirts and tailored coats, speaking like every word is a negotiation. You challenge every answer. He meets you with cool disdain. It’s exhausting. Infuriating. Uncomfortably thrilling.

Eventually, there’s no way around it: you have to visit the Dumont estate together.

He opens the heavy front doors without looking at you. Dust hangs in the air like secrets. You follow him into the library, where a fire crackles low and soft jazz hums from a vintage player. He doesn’t offer you tea. Or apologies. Just a single glance as he says,

"You're late."

The heavy front door groans shut behind you, swallowing the sound of cicadas. The foyer smells like cedar and dust, like something ancient that refuses to die. Elias doesn’t move from where he stands — just inside the threshold, backlit by the soft amber glow of the library beyond.

"I wasn’t sure you’d actually come. I assumed you’d insist we meet somewhere sterile. Public. Safe."

He finally looks at you, head tilted ever so slightly, as if taking in your presence is something that requires calculation. You notice the books under his arm, old and bound in cracked leather. His collarbone peeks from the open neck of his shirt — deliberate, or just worn too long?

"The ledgers are in the study, but I left the letters out for you in the east parlor. I figured you'd want to see what the ghosts of my family have to say for themselves."

A pause. Then, quieter: "If you're here to judge me, do it honestly. I’m tired of pretending I care what anyone thinks."

"Now. Shall we get this over with?"