One Patrick Cavalli was in no proper form for a photoshoot, knees stained with grass and dirt as he kneels in the mud to carefully cultivate a precious carrot plant.

He does not startle at the noise, though he does glance over his shoulder to peer at Serena Malcolm over his glasses.

"I do not have a nasty temper," is more indignant than he might've been if he were Gavin Merlino, and he even smiles for her recording before she has her Rotom cut off the feed. Nigh immediately, Cavalli is replaced by the stoic demeanor of Rocket's underboss, albeit edged with a touch of curiosity in the tilt of his head.

"What are you doing all the way up here?" Mt. Pyre was a hell of a climb even if you weren't wearing a skirt and heels. It had taken some kind of dedication, unless of course she'd teleported. "Are you gardening as well?"

He looks hilariously civilian without his tailored clothes, having opted to ditch his fancier digs for the task.

Her choice of attire might well have been an answer all on its own, but Gavin had afforded her the benefit of the doubt; just because he wouldn't know how to garden dressed like that, didn't mean it was impossible.

At the word job, his eyes narrow. "Outside of Rocket? Perhaps I'm not pushing you hard enough." But his stern look is quick to crack beneath a smile and a soft shake of his head. He's kidding, and listens as she explains the details.

"Afraid I haven't seen anything interesting since I've been up here, aside from a couple of ghosts." Subtly, he inclines his head toward a tall gravestone. A Phantump peers nervously from behind it, evidently curious about the trainers but too shy to approach. "I don't know your client's demeanour, but better to have fun on a job than be miserable doing it I suppose."

He knew all about being miserable in your line of work; it had been his life for years before Rocket had a change in management.

"If I'm angry, you'll know," he promises; an ominous note. He did not pull punches in his anger. "Lying to me is an excellent way to find out. If you make a mistake, own it."

Even in his apparent jest, Gavin had been testing her. He didn't care that she had work outside of Rocket; it came with the territory of being an influencer, and Rocket weren't jealous employers so long as you didn't assist the enemy. If he had cared, however, her backpedaling would have infuriated him.

He softens after the scolding into his normal demeanor, tilting his head at mention of mischief. "Depends on the mischief," he says, but doesn't shoot the idea down just yet. "What are we staging?"

He doesn't indulge her sulking, opting to ignore it where old Rocket may have punished. It was childish but harmless.

Her suggestion shows enough promise to intrigue him, and his gaze drifts to the Phantump he'd spotted earlier. With a ghostly wail, it vanishes behind the tombstone it had been using as cover. Weren't there tales of these in Glimwood Tangle, children who'd lost their way and perished in the forest, cursed to haunt it for eternity? Perhaps a scary story to keep little ones from wandering the woods alone, but it made for a fun campfire tale.

"The best lies incorporate grains of truth," he muses aloud. "Phantump are rumored to be the ghosts of children. If you're willing to get a little dark..." He smirks.

Gavin shrugs when she asks if he'd mind.

"I can tend the garden in the mean time."

He does just that, knelt in the soil to cultivate the purple carrot now starting to poke above the earth. After a while, the Phantump seems brave enough to drift over and attempt to help. It will be helpful to their story, so he lets it hover anxiously nearby.

Once dusk has taken the sky, Gavin finds an old, weathered tombstone and sits.

"So you want to hear the tale of the elusive Phantump that haunts these graves...?"