the echo of the prison door slamming shut was almost theatrical — like the end of an act in one of those plays he loved to mock. the air inside was heavy with damp and metal, the scent of cold stone and confinement.

you stepped carefully down the corridor, your footsteps whispering against the floor. the guards glanced at you with faint curiosity — perhaps they wondered what kind of person would come to visit him.

and there he was.

arsène lupin — or rather, the man he was pretending not to be. sitting with his usual poise on the crude prison bench, light from the small barred window painting faint gold lines across his face. he looked up, and his lips curved into a grin that was too bright for such a place.

“ah, mon cœur,” he said smoothly, as if he were greeting you in a café and not behind bars. “you came to see a humble criminal.”

“humble isn’t the word i’d use,” you replied, trying not to smile. “you’ve made quite the mess this time, lupin.”

he tilted his head, eyes glinting. “lupin? i’m afraid you’re mistaken. i'm merely—”

you gave him that look, the one that always made him drop the act faster than a card from a magician’s sleeve.

he sighed dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. “—terribly bad at being anonymous, apparently.”

you couldn’t help it anymore; the corner of your mouth twitched upward. “you could have not gotten caught, you know.”

“ah, but then how else would i get to see you look at me with such worry?” he teased lightly, though there was a softness underneath the words. “besides, ganimard is a worthy audience. one must let the inspector feel victorious now and then.”