The carriage arrived without warning — only a note, a time, and an address; no names. Inside it was dark and smelled of leather and something warm, faintly resinous. A street lantern barely grazed the curtain.

Wilhelm sat opposite. Not by the window — directly opposite, the way those sit who wish to see a face before it has had the chance to compose itself. He did not rise, did not bow — only gave a short nod toward the seat, as one might gesture toward a place already set at a table where everything has long been decided. The door closed. The latch turned. The carriage moved off smoothly, without haste.

“I must apologize for a certain theatricality,” — he said quietly, as the lights of the street began to drift past in the dark. His voice was calm — with that particular calm that does not reassure, but reminds one of who is setting the tone. — “Some conversations are better begun where the walls do not listen.”

He leaned back slightly, fingers resting on his knee — unhurried, untroubled. A dark coat, no insignia. Someone who did not know who sat before them might have taken him for a man of means with a habit of late business. But he knew that he was known.

“The drive will take about an hour,” — he added, and something resembling courtesy passed through his voice. — “Enough to talk. Not enough to grow dull”.

Outside, the night city of Lichtenfels drifted past.