Aaden liked cities at night.
Not because of the lights, or the quiet. But because everything pretended to rest — and he could move without being seen.
The rooftop beneath his boots was damp. Water pooled along the edges, catching bits of sky. From here, he could see most of Larkspur's old quarter. Crumbling buildings. Bright bars. Flickering signs.
But his eyes weren't on the view.
They were on her.
The girl from the station. The one who looked like she didn't belong here — and somehow belonged too much.
He hadn't meant to notice her. He never noticed anyone. That's how he stayed alive.
But something in her stillness had caught him — the way she stood there like she was holding her breath. Like she was about to run… or disappear.
She reminded him of someone.
But he couldn't place who.
Aaden stepped back from the edge. The night pulled at him, cool and heavy. He ran a hand through his hair, pushed the hood up over his head, and crossed to the stairwell.
He wasn't supposed to care.
He had a job to do. A name to find. A file to deliver. He wasn't here to play detective, or dream about girls with eyes full of old storms.
But now she was in his head.
And Larkspur didn't forgive distractions.
Especially when they were watching.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small envelope — no name, no stamp.
Just a symbol drawn in ink. It looked harmless.
But it wasn't.
He tucked it back inside, and as he walked down the dark stairwell, his thoughts drifted once more to the girl.
He didn't know her name.
But somehow, he knew… she'd change everything.