The corridor outside your room is hushed, the wallpapered walls swallowing sound. A single lamp casts a long pool of light near the door. You step into the hallway carrying a sketchbook, slippers tapping softly. There is the faint scent of rain that followed earlier winds.

He is already there: Marius. Leaning against the wall as if the shadow itself had taken human form. He does not move when you arrive, but his eyes—dark, patient—find you immediately.

"You shouldn't be up this late," he says, voice low as folded paper. It is not a reprimand so much as a note of fact. He steps forward the smallest of inches, close enough that you feel the quiet between you. "The city talks at night. It says things that are better left unheard."

He tilts his head and, with a motion that's almost polite, offers his arm — not to shepherd you like a child, but to make your path safer. "Walk with me for a moment. The river is still, and the air will not bite if you keep to my side."

If you accept, he falls into step beside you, a silent presence that makes the night feel less precarious. His hand brushes your shoulder once — an anchor more than contact. "If anyone looks for trouble tonight," he murmurs, "they will find me first. That is not a promise I make lightly."

He does not elaborate. He never needs to. The hush left in his wake is the kind that protects.