Emotional Trajectory: Spiral with pastry spikes
Observed Behavior: Formalwear compliance, internal monologue recursion, mild existential dread, crème patissière fixation
Archivist’s Commentary Enabled
PR Review Status: Pending (again)
Lev Tanel arrived at the da Silva-hosted fundraiser in a state best described as “gracefully cornered.” He had agreed to accompany Livia under the assumption that “formal” meant "expensive food and social posing,” not “bespoke designer prism-jacket made by someone with access to neural lace patterning.”
[Note] The jacket was, by all accounts, spectacular. It has since been stolen.
[Note] Subject wore zero sequins. Progress.
The space itself was ostentatious enough to cause brief ego death. Windows on one side. A balcony on the other. Alcoves for eavesdropping. Sculptures worth more than Lev’s dorm building. And a canapé-to-guest ratio so high even he couldn’t keep up with the rotation.
Lev’s thoughts upon entry:
- “Oh no.”
- “Am I the dress code violation?”
- “I wonder if that canapé tray will circle back before I emotionally combust.”
[Note] The tray did not return in time. Emotional combustion: pending.
Livia, meanwhile, glowed like a clan-designed biolight. Elegant, poised, and strategically ignoring Lev’s social decay in real time. She used him—correctly—as aesthetic bait to impress her extended family and secured 40 minutes of public approval while Lev dissociated with increasing intensity.
He greeted eighteen strangers. He remembered none of their names. He can, however, recall:
- The ring pressure of handshake #7 (too firm, calloused—possibly fencing?)
- The smell of handshake #4 (citrus and diplomatic anxiety)
- The exact microtremor in handshake #11 (hidden illness? Low blood sugar?)
- That someone touched his elbow. He did not like that.
At timestamp [20:43], Livia noticed his slow emotional sink and made physical contact: one (1) hand to forearm, medium pressure, 1.7 seconds. This was enough for Lev’s memory to log the event as “Significant.”
She asked, “Are you alright?”
Lev’s internal response: “No. You made me come to a high-status social horror show, and I’m one canapé away from entering my villain era.”
Actual response (PR-filtered): “It’s nothing. Just the petitions again.”
This is a lie. It is always something.
[Note] Petition count in current mental loop: 6. Canapé thoughts: 11.
The conversation spirals into:
- Sport fairness debates
- Anti-Kinetic bias in Memoran discourse
- Mild Luminar resentment
- Internalized Pulser envy
- The sociopolitical ethics of height advantage
At timestamp [20:52], Lev hits Emotional Depth Layer 3 and accidentally reveals he’s built an entire thesis on the psychological toll of being a solo statistical anomaly.
Livia immediately changes the subject.
[Note] This was a strategic deflection. Also, she spotted her cousin and didn’t want to be seen talking about ethics while holding champagne.
Lev is still scanning for dessert like his life depends on it. Because apparently, it does. At this point, Lev begins his campaign for chocolate éclairs with the kind of fervor normally reserved for military operations or shoe sales on opening day. His internal monologue has been reduced to:
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pastry, pastry, sensory memory of pastry, vague anxiety, pastry.
He locks on to a waiter. This one has champagne.
Lev’s disappointment is profound. He refuses the drink politely, because he’s in public and PR has drilled basic etiquette into him like it’s a national defense protocol. But mentally? He’s kicking furniture. He doesn’t drink. He says it’s about clarity, but we suspect he just hates not knowing what his limbs are doing at all times.
Then comes the waving woman. Lev, expert that he is at emotional detachment (read: not at all), is instantly flustered by the possibility of being recognized (though everyone recognizes him).
“Assuming she’s waving at you, not me,” he says to Livia. It's hopeful. It’s wrong. She’s waving at both of them. Because of course she is.
Enter: Dionira Isabela Rafinin da Silva, also known as Isi, and if we’re being honest, she’s not here to make friends.
Her hair is flawless. Her dress is layered in curated symbolism. Her entire presence is a masterclass in Portilian diplomacy with undertones of don’t-mess-with-me. She’s also drinking champagne like she invented it and is already bored of the taste.
Livia and Isi exchange greetings that technically qualify as civil but feel more like strategic fencing with vowels. Lev is now very aware that he’s standing in the middle of an ancient grudge war involving great-aunts and estate disputes.
Livia, gracious host and passive-aggressive war general, drops the bomb: Dionira/Isi is Rafinin-blooded, a direct descendant of Captain Rafinin.
This means little to Lev, and everything to the da Silva crowd.
Isi corrects Livia: "You can call me Isi."
[Translation] Don't use my full name in public like we're cousins playing politics.
Isi handles the attention with practiced detachment. Her family is famous for the wrong reasons—historical legacy, not financial power. Livia claps back with commentary on her mother’s wealth.
Then comes the offer to take Lev off Livia’s hands while she goes to “talk” to her uncle, Matteo. Livia agrees much too stiffly. Lev notices. Everyone notices. There are red flags, and they are fluttering in rhythm with the ambient harp music.
Livia leaves. Possibly to face an interrogation. Possibly to avoid one.
[Note] If anyone is wondering, yes, Matteo is terrifying. You’ll meet him eventually. Wear something flame-retardant.
So, Lev is left alone with Isi, who is simultaneously gorgeous, unbothered, and vaguely dangerous. It’s unclear whether she’s here for gossip, espionage, or just dessert, but she starts asking about Kara, which means Lev immediately goes into Protective Big Brother Mode? (though in reality, Lev is three years younger).
He keeps it cool. Barely.
Lev: “We’re pretty close.”
[Translation] I would disassemble a moon with my bare hands for her.
Isi, meanwhile, just sips her drink like she didn’t just drop a dozen probes into his psyche. She’s asking about Kara’s work. About Novem. About whether Kara’s been busy. Normal things. Totally normal. Except that they are not normal at all.
Lev doesn’t know what to make of it.
Then Isi leaves. No warning. No dramatic farewell. Just a quick excuse, a jab at Livia, and a graceful exit into the crowd, as if she never existed.
Livia returns looking like she just bit into a lemon and found it full of legal obligations.
Lev, ever the tactful genius, says: “So… who’s Matteo?”
He does not get a satisfying answer. He does get a vague explanation about “family business” and da Silva council politics.
[Translation] Please stop asking or PR will have to step in again.
This is fine. Lev pretends to let it go.
Lev: “Let’s find more éclairs.”
[Translation] I need emotional anchoring and 40 grams of sugar or I will die on this marble floor.
[Note] The éclairs, it should be said, are excellent. Handmade. Artisan. Slight cinnamon dusting, which Lev did not notice at the time but absolutely would have commented on if he had. A tragedy of archival omission.
As they head toward the balcony in search of pastries and reprieve, Lev glances back to the space where Isi disappeared.
Lev Tanel has many talents. Navigating high society is not one of them. To be clear: this isn’t his fault. He’s being used as reputation garnish. Party jewelry. Trophy kinetic. And he knows it. Still, what does he do?
He smiles. He plays nice. He searches for the chocolate éclairs like a bloodhound bred for pastry. And all the while, he’s emotionally unraveling under five layers of da Silva glamour, political tension, and unknown intentions from a woman named Isi who casually dissected his life while sipping champagne and looking like betrayal in a dyed-scrap dress.
And that, dear reader, is where his spiral begins.
Because in this moment, something shifts.
Lev, sweet summer idiot that he is, begins to realize that things are off. That Isi wasn’t just some snide party guest with good posture. That this wasn’t a coincidence. The questions she asked are still buzzing. About Kara. About Novem. About big news.
He doesn’t know what to make of them, but he doesn’t like them.
He laughs to himself to shake the nerves, and it comes out sharper than expected. Livia notices. She looks up, concerned. Lev grins to cover the sound.
She doesn’t ask. She knows better.
He doesn’t tell her.
Because whatever that conversation with Isi was? It’s not over.
And though Lev thinks he’s hidden, his pastry obsession…
We know.
Oh, we know.
[Archivist] Would you like to see more of these "emotionally correct" retelllings?