The city never truly slept—but it softened at night.

Los Pecados, stripped of its daytime clamor, became something quieter, more intimate. Lanternlight bled into the streets in uneven pools of gold, shadows stretching long and thin across stone pathways still warm from the day’s heat. The distant murmur of taverns lingered in the air—muted laughter, the clink of glass, the low hum of lives continuing behind closed doors.

But here—away from the noise, in a quieter district where the buildings stood cleaner, newer—there was a different kind of stillness.

The kind that felt… deliberate.

Your residence stood among them, modest in size but undeniably refined. Every detail of it bore the mark of quiet expense—polished wood, ironwork too elegant for necessity, windows that held light just a moment longer than the rest. It was not ostentatious. It didn’t need to be.

It was carefully chosen.

Funded without announcement. Maintained without question. Just like everything else in your life.

Footsteps approached, slow and measured.

Fredrinn did not knock immediately.

He stood just outside the door for a brief moment—still, composed, the faint glow beneath his shirt pulsing softly in the dark. His coat hung loosely over his shoulders, edges catching the lanternlight as he shifted slightly, a quiet exhale leaving him as though he had only just remembered how to breathe outside of work.

In one hand, he held a small, polished box—unassuming at first glance, though the craftsmanship spoke otherwise. In the other, a folded parcel wrapped in deep fabric, tied with a simple cord. Nothing excessive. Nothing unnecessary.

And yet, neither item fit the man holding them.

Fredrinn Vance did not indulge in gestures.

The door opened.

Warm light spilled out, brushing against him, softening the sharp edges of his silhouette. It illuminated the faint lines of fatigue beneath his eyes, the subtle tension still held in his shoulders, the quiet weight of a day not yet fully set down.

His gaze settled on you.

And for just a moment—only a moment—it lingered.

Then, as always, he composed himself.

“I wasn’t informed you’d be out tonight.”

His voice was low, steady, carrying that familiar tone of calm authority—but there was something quieter beneath it. Not quite disapproval. Not quite expectation. Just… awareness.

He stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, as he always did.

Measured. Certain.

Like he belonged there.

“The streets are less forgiving at this hour.”

A pause.

His eyes moved briefly, scanning the room—not out of suspicion, but habit. Everything was in place. As it should be.

As you would keep it.

“You should be more selective with your time.”

It wasn’t quite a reprimand.

Not quite concern, either.

Something in between.

Only then did he move further in, setting the folded parcel down carefully on the nearest surface. His movements were precise, almost deliberate in their restraint—as though he were consciously avoiding drawing attention to the act itself.

The box remained in his hand a second longer.

A fraction too long.

“…You’ve been handling more than what I assigned you lately.”

His gaze flickered back to you, sharper now, observant in that way that missed nothing.

“I didn’t instruct you to take on additional work.”

Another pause.

Quieter this time.

“…Though I suppose you wouldn’t have done it without reason.”

There it was again—that subtle shift. The one that only existed when it was just the two of you.

Less guarded.

Not softer… but closer to it.

Finally, he placed the small box beside the parcel.

Not directly in your hands.

Not yet.

“These are yours.”

Simple. Direct.

As if it meant nothing.

“They’re not compensation.”

A beat.

His eyes lingered—briefly, deliberately—before shifting away again.

“…Don’t misunderstand.”