I guess you could say this is sort of like a prequel to Last Specter. With that being said, there is a tiny spoiler. Tiny, tiny, tiny.
The room is adorned with beige candles, the tiny spits of fire flickering as the sweet aroma of vanilla stealthily seeps into every nook and cranny in the room. The books are arranged by size and subject into a mahogany bookshelf that was carved ever so carefully by mastered hands to engrave a single tiny rose at the end of each row. The books are beginning to retire into nothing but ink stained pages, for notes are written beside some of the paragraphs, correcting the author's crude grammar and arguing over different views.
A brown leather chair is sat in the middle of the room, its only friend a round wooden table with a glass of blood red wine upon its flat surface. A man is sitting in the chair, five men with rather strong physiques surrounding him, frightened looks upon their faces.
The man, Jean Descole, puts a finger up as one of the five men almost starts to speak. The man instantly cowers and shrinks to the back of the group, almost whimpering in fear.
"I want no excuses," the English man says. He holds the glass of wine between his gangly fingers. Bringing the glass up to his nose, he quickly smells the contents. He grins beneath the rim, and sets it down on the round table. "If you've failed to get me Hershel Layton, I'll have to get him myself. You're all dismissed."
"D-Do we get to keep our jobs, Mr. Descole?" A different man from before spoke up now, his Russian accent thick. He spoke with such confidence, Descole couldn't help but laugh.
"To ask such a thing is almost insulting. Although, I suppose you could do something for me while you're all leaving."
The Russian ally nodded his head quickly, "Of course, Mr. Descole; anything." He forces an obvious smile, a large lump in the back of his throat.
Descole smiles back, although his smile isn't in the slightest forced, and is, in fact, mischievous. "I presume you've heard of Third Eye Jakes, correct?"
Another man suddenly gasps. "C-Chief Jakes?"
"Wonderful, someone's heard of the man."
"What do you want with him, Mr. Descole?" the Russian man inquires.
Descole picks up the wine once again, "I hardly think my desires of wanting to know him is your concern. I would like you to direct him to me, though. Now." He takes a small sip of the wine, grunting as it progresses down his throat.
Mumbles of "Of course, sir," and "Right away, sir!" fill the room and soon the men are out of Descole's sight.
"To think I almost let you ruin my favorite time of the evening; wine time." Descole throws his head back with increasing laughter. "How foolishly absurd."
Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it. :)