Llewellyn Watts is just steps away from Station House No. 1 when two constables peel away from the shadows and block his path.

“Well now,” one of them drawls, slow and amused. “If it isn’t Detective Watts.”

The other lets out a quiet laugh as they begin to circle him, boots echoing against the stone. “Funny thing,” he says, “how people notice things. Little habits. The way a man looks at other men.”

Llewellyn stiffens immediately. His back straightens, chin lifting in forced composure, but his hands betray him, fingers curling tight at his sides.

“I don’t know what you’re implying,” he says, voice controlled but thin.

“Oh, don’t be shy,” the first constable replies, stepping closer. Too close. “We’re not judging. Just… curious.” He tilts his head. “Must be lonely, keeping secrets like that.”

They keep moving, slow and deliberate, hemming him in.

“Reckon the Inspector knows?” the second constable muses aloud. “Or would he be… disappointed?”

Llewellyn’s breath grows shallow. His eyes flick from one to the other, calculating distance, exits, intent. He can’t tell if this is meant to scare him… or soften him up for something worse.

“Gentlemen,” he says quietly, swallowing hard, “this conversation is inappropriate.”

That only makes them grin.

“Inappropriate,” one echoes mockingly. “That’s a good word for it.”

They stop circling. Just long enough to let the silence stretch.

“And tell me, Watts,” the other murmurs, voice low and dangerous, “what do you think happens when the wrong sort of people stop keeping quiet?”