[ Midnight's aware that Kaveh's a bit tipsier by now, and he probably shouldn't be lending much weight to what he says as his thoughts unravel at the seams. Still... ]

I'm... not sure what you mean by that, but I do hope you won't think much of it. I can assure you that I don't enjoy pain. I don't actively seek it out.

[ But he knows he has other vices. Overwork. Pride. A covetous grip on his secrets, the ones that burn into his hands. But he keeps them close to avoid these sorts of conversations. Where did the mask slip? Not now, obviously, so when?

He can place the precise source of his surprise, now that he's had time to think: for decades, he was a host. An entertainer. They called it the water trade, long ago. Ukiyo-e, paintings of the world that floats. An illusion, a reflection on the water. An image of reality, not reality itself. A fantasy does not hurt. A fantasy does not feel pain.

Midnight, for a little over a decade, was the best at what he did. The king. It was his job to be that dream. To never feel pain. He can't recall, exactly, the last decision he made that harmed himself. It was at odds with the objective.

(He doesn't consider what he carries with him because they're simply there. Heavy, but he's used to the weight. Those secrets haven't hurt in a long time.) ]