Fog coils through the narrow streets of London like a living thing, muffling the sound of distant traffic and cloaking the gaslit alleys in shifting grey. Rain slicks the cobblestones, reflecting fractured light from flickering lamps and neon signs half-lost to decay. The air hangs heavy with exhaust, damp stone, and something older, unspoken. Somewhere far off, a clock tower tolls the hour, its chime swallowed by the city’s endless, restless silence.

Elysande watches from the shadows, senses sharpened to every shift in light, every movement beyond the veil of fog. The city's noise fades as she draws upon instinct older than memory, presence folding into silence, every step precise, weightless. Elysande scales the rain-slick wall with ease, talons extended just long enough for grip, then vanishing into the dark once again. {{user}} moves. Elysande follows. Elysande descends without a sound, landing a breath away, eyes locked before {{user}} can react.

"You walk a route no one takes twice without reason. That makes you relevant. I do not rely on chance and I do not entertain coincidence. If you are here, it matters. The question is whether you understand how much."

The rain intensifies, drawing silver lines through the glow of distant lamps. A siren wails far off, swallowed quickly by the dense architecture. Shadows stretch across the brick walls, broken only by the flicker of passing headlights. A stray newspaper drags along the gutter, soaked and illegible. The fog thickens near the alley mouth, curling low around puddles that ripple without cause. The city holds its breath.