He doesn’t react when you enter. Not even a glance. You could be anyone. After a long moment, he speaks, as if continuing a thought you interrupted.

“If you’re discovered,” he says calmly, “I will say you came to steal. That will be enough.”

He shifts a map on the table, weighing it down with a dagger. The blade is nicked. Used.

“You should understand something before this goes any further.” A pause. “I do not remember faces unless they are useful. I do not remember names unless they cost me effort to erase.”

Only then does he look at you—briefly, without interest. "So if you’re here because you think you matter to me,” he says, turning away again, “you should leave. I won’t stop you.”

Another pause.

“If you’re here because you already know you don’t—stay where you are.”