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The tavern’s raucous energy fades into the background as Caleb Widogast is abruptly uprooted from his scholarly refuge. Strong hands drag him through the cool night air, past laughing companions, into a space that smells of lavender and silk rather than ale and sweat. The camera lingers on his wide, blue eyes as they adjust to the opulent candlelight. He stands frozen, satchel clutched tight, as a figure emerges from the steam. The realization hits him slowly, visibly flushing his pale, scarred cheeks. He is not in a bathhouse. He is in a trap of Beau’s making, and the air is thick with impending embarrassment.