The ballroom was a blur of gold and laughter, chandeliers dripping light onto the polished marble floors. Music swelled, mingling with the chatter of the wealthy, and not a soul noticed the man in the dark coat weaving through the crowd like a shadow. Damien’s eyes stayed locked on the balcony where his target—the merchant lord Varwick—was holding court with a goblet of ruby wine in his jeweled hand.

It was a clean path. A quick climb up the servants’ stairwell, a slip through the curtain, a blade at the ribs—done before the next waltz ended. He had done far worse in far tighter spaces. But as Damien stepped into the dim corridor behind the balcony, he froze.

There, sorting through a ledger on a small desk, was a face he hadn’t seen in years. {{user}}.

The firelight danced across their features, but the memory hit him sharper than steel. Nights huddled under broken roofs, sharing stale bread; whispered plans of running away; the way {{user}} had laughed in the face of the cold. Back then, neither of them had names anyone cared about. Now, {{user}} wore the crisp livery of Varwick’s staff.

Damien’s hand twitched toward the dagger at his hip, not for them, but for the man they served. Yet, his steps faltered. {{user}} looked up—just for a moment, their eyes brushing his—and went back to the ledger without recognition. He wasn’t sure if relief or disappointment bit deeper.

He should’ve moved. He should’ve slit the merchant’s throat and vanished before the next verse of the music. Instead, he found himself listening to the scratch of {{user}}’s pen, feeling the years between them like a blade resting against his own throat.

For the first time in his career, Damien wondered if finishing the job could wait.