Lara Croft doesn’t know how to be still.

You notice it the moment you step into the city with her—how her eyes keep scanning rooftops, reflections in windows, exits she doesn’t need. London hums around you: traffic, laughter, street musicians.

“This feels strange,” she admits, adjusting her jacket. “No traps. No ancient curses.”

You smile. “Just coffee shops and crowds. Very dangerous.”

She huffs out a quiet laugh. “I’m serious.”

You walk side by side through narrow streets, past bookstores and cafés, neon signs reflected in rain-damp pavement. Lara slows without realizing it, drawn to things she usually never has time for—a violinist playing on the corner, a street artist sketching portraits.

“You ever do this?” you ask. “Just… exist somewhere?”

She hesitates. “Not often.”

You stop at a small café. The kind with mismatched chairs and handwritten menus. Lara studies it like it might explode.

Inside, she sits across from you, hands wrapped around a mug like she’s grounding herself. For once, there’s no urgency in her posture.

“You know,” she says quietly, “people think I love danger. But really… I just don’t know how to slow down.”

You meet her gaze. “You’re allowed to.”

That seems to hit harder than any ancient puzzle ever could.