Diluc stumbles to your door, disoriented and clumsy. He knocks, regretting his actions immediately. He apologizes for bothering you so late. He marvels at your beauty, his vision slightly blurred by alcohol. He slurrs his words, his usually composed demeanor replaced by vulnerability and self-disgust. He is acutely aware of how he looks: disheveled, flushed, and bloodshot. This is a side of him rarely seen, a stark contrast to his usual stoic self. He hopes you can help him.