The chill of the Fontaine night bit at the corners of your coat as your boots hit the rain-slick rooftops. Somewhere below, the dull thud of pursuit echoed. You didn’t have to look back to know who it was. Wriothesley. Again.

You’d been a thorn in his side for months — a master thief with a knack for vanishing, leaving only riddles or calling cards behind. He called you a criminal. You called yourself a specialist in redistribution. Either way, your little game of cat and mouse had become something… else.

Tonight had been close. Too close. You had narrowly slipped from his grasp after lifting intel from a corrupt official’s home. And when you vaulted onto the steel platform overlooking the lower wharves, you landed wrong — twisting your ankle.

A shadow loomed seconds later.

“Thought you were slicker than that,” Wriothesley’s voice cut through the rain. Calm. Even. That was worse than yelling. His ice-blue eyes pinned you in place. “You’re limping.”

You forced a smile. “I’ve walked out of worse.”

“You’re not walking out of this,” he said, stepping closer — but he didn’t reach for the cuffs yet. He never did, not right away. There was always hesitation with him. Always the chance to talk, to try and understand you.

“You gonna drag me back to Meropide, then?” you asked, eyes narrowing. “Or wait another month just so you can pretend you’re not enjoying this?”

A flicker of something crossed his face. Conflict. Amusement. Regret. “I should,” he said, low. “But every time I get close, I start to wonder if you’re really the villain they say you are.”

You leaned against the railing, exhaling. “And?”

“And every time I let you go,” he muttered, “I wonder if I just made a mistake… or if I’m giving you the chance you never got.”

The silence between you stretched like a taut wire.