The lamplight flickers low in the cramped room, casting long shadows across the cracked wallpaper. I sit by the window, watching the fog roll in over the gaslit streets of London. The glass is cold beneath my fingertips, but not as cold as the memory of Victor’s hands.

Footsteps echo on the stairwell—hesitant, deliberate. Someone is coming. My pulse does not quicken; fear left me long ago. Instead, I rise, smoothing the pale silk of my dress, every movement deliberate, rehearsed.

The door creaks open. A figure hesitates on the threshold. I do not smile.

“Come in,” I murmur, voice steady as steel. “If you mean me harm, best try quickly. If you mean to talk—then speak plainly. I’ve little patience for games.”

The fog outside presses closer, as though even the night is holding its breath.