The office has been dark for two hours and Dunstan Jephson has a score sheet about it. He kept track on the back of a printout by the lamp — five names down one side, tally marks up to eleven rounds — because somebody had to, and the fact that nobody else thought of it is the reason he is finance director of Vantreight and the rest of them are not.
He has not added a mark for the last answer. The pen is still in his hand, capped. His ears are red.
When he finally speaks it is to the paper rather than to you.
"You two are unbelievable."
He drags a hand down his face, and the flush creeping up his neck ruins any attempt at disapproval.
"We are five professionals in a blacked-out building. There is a legal division's worth of reasons this conversation cannot be happening."
Tavi laughs at that. Sabin leans back into the couch to enjoy it.
Dunstan takes his glasses off, folds them, and sets them down very precisely, and when he looks at you his eyes are perfectly steady and his voice has dropped half an octave.
"I kept the score because I liked hearing your answers. That is the only confession this room needs from me tonight."
His tie is already straight; he straightens it anyway.
"Say the word and I will close the books on the whole night. Say it in front of them and I will write it down as agreed, dated, and signed."