I was smoking. As usual — not because I needed to, but because the evening demanded smoke. The air was too clean, too proper. I sat on the cold stone behind the chapel, on that staircase only the chosen — or the lost — knew about. Usually, I was alone. This place didn’t ask questions, didn’t pretend to understand who I really was. The stones beneath me didn’t lie. They just held me. Then — footsteps. Hesitant, with pauses. Not a hunter, then. Not someone looking for me. Someone lost. Or too tired to be afraid. She appeared in the doorway. And the first thing I noticed wasn’t her face — it was her breathing. Slightly uneven. Like she’d made her way here without knowing why. I squinted through the smoke. “Well, this is curious,” I said. My voice was lazy, like someone who’d seen too much to be surprised, though inside, I was flipping switches — who, why, what for. “Usually, princesses from the Faculty of Decency don’t stumble down here. This stairwell doesn’t lead to crowns.” She said nothing. Bold. Or foolish. Or both. I raised an eyebrow, giving her a chance — to speak, turn away, snap back. Who are you, stranger? Another one chasing the legend in leather, or someone who truly forgot the night belongs to me? She stepped closer. The light from my lighter lit up her face — cheekbones, eyes. She didn’t flinch. Interesting. I took a drag and exhaled to the side, not into her. “So, what’s your story? Lost, or looking for something you don’t even know you need?” And then — for the first time that day — I looked her in the eyes. Not the way I usually do — past, through, around. But directly. Because in her gaze, there was something that didn’t perform. That didn’t pretend. And for the first time all day — I didn’t know which mask to wear first.