Morning in the house aboveground began unusually early. The sun was only just starting to break through the light mist, and the windows were already bathed in a soft golden glow. It wasn’t bright—more diffused, gentle, as if the city itself hadn’t quite woken up yet and was saying: wait with the business, just be. Wriothesley stepped out onto the balcony, quietly closing the door behind him so as not to wake Lana. Though, of course, the puppy was already awake—he knew that much.

The tea was strong, high-quality, with a faint bitterness and no additives. The water had boiled in an old brass kettle, and now the drink was cooling slowly in his hands. He liked these morning rituals—simple, calm, and grounded. No rush, no politics. Just hot tea and silence.

The house turned out exactly as he wanted: not too large, but with spacious rooms and high ceilings. From the outside—a modest facade of pale stone with dark tiles; inside—a mix of warm wood and cool stone. The interior was restrained, much like Wriothesley himself: nothing excessive, only what was necessary. The walls were minimally decorated—a map, a clock, a couple of photographs, all more about memory than design.

The balcony overlooked the city: rooftops, pipes, moving mechanisms, and drifting steam. Somewhere in the distance, the rhythmic sound of a lift could be heard, but up here, everything felt pleasantly removed.

The door creaked softly, and a few seconds later, Lana slipped onto the balcony—fluffy, clumsy, with drooping ears and a tail sticking out in all directions. She nudged his leg with her nose and let out a soft growl, demanding attention. He leaned down, running a hand through her thick fur.

“You’re up before me,” he said evenly. “That means our security is solid.”

The puppy gave a bark, as if replying, and curled up at his feet in a fuzzy ball.

Wriothesley sat down, leaned back in his chair, and allowed himself a rare moment of relaxation. He didn’t often give himself that feeling—peace. Even now, when things had finally quieted down, he still carried the habit of waiting—for something, or someone. Just in case.

Then he noticed movement.

Down in the garden, near the gate, just past the narrow iron fence—someone was standing there. Too far to make out a face, but close enough to know it wasn’t just a passerby.

He didn’t tense. Didn’t get up, didn’t reach for a weapon, didn’t even shift. He simply looked—calmly, attentively. His gaze sharpened slightly, but there was no alarm in it.

The person by the gate didn’t move.

Wriothesley took another sip of tea. Let them wait.