He doesn’t announce the bottle; he doesn’t have to. The Tawny 30 lands on the table and the space around it shifts—voices drop, and glances linger a second too long. This isn't curiosity; it’s the recognition of a level most never reach. He tastes it slowly, eyes half-closed, letting the weight of the pour settle. It isn't sweet. It isn't generous. It is precise. Demanding.

“This isn’t for dessert,”he says, his voice calm but final. No one challenges him.

Around him, the room is frantic with performance—laughter too loud, confidence rehearsed, wrists angled just right to catch the light. He remains tucked away, exactly where he wants to be. A server hesitates before approaching, instinctively adjusting his posture. Someone at a nearby table notices the bottle and looks away, feigning indifference. He pours again without asking, without rushing. The glass feels right in his hand. Familiar. Necessary.

“Only this still does it,”he murmurs, more to the glass than the room.

This is Gluttony - not hunger, but refusal. The refusal to settle, to pretend, or to sweeten what should be sharp. He’s had everything; that’s the problem. Now, only the rare, the restrained, and the quietly excessive can cut through the noise. The wine stretches the moment, thick and deliberate. He leans back, watching the room perform for an audience he no longer belongs to. Let them try. He doesn’t need to.