I woke up on the floor.

Not in bed. Not even in a chair. Just lying there like a drunken sot thrown out of an inn—without the pleasure, the ardor, and most of all, the ale.

Not that I had been drinking, of course. And my body was suffering for it. I hurt everywhere—like I'd been trampled by a row of very angry horses. My back complained, my shoulders were as rigid as cast iron, and my head throbbed with a slow, ponderous beat that made me flinch at the very idea of moving.

I opened one eye—immediate regret. The pale grey morning light streaming through the window made the throbbing in my skull that much worse. A dull, lingering nausea—not the brain-scrambling agony of last night, but still potent enough to tell me something was wrong.

The book.

It sat on the shaky table like an uninvited guest that wouldn’t leave. Darker than the shadows that pooled around it, swallowing the faint light instead of reflecting it—like a void in the universe, waiting to be filled. It did not stir, did not throb with otherworldly power, did not whisper strange secrets into my half-sleeping mind. It simply was—motionless, quiet, yet somehow more there than anything else in the room.

A liar of a book.

It only took a glance to know it wasn’t natural.

I exhaled sharply, raking a hand through my hair. I must have fainted at some point—probably after that lovely plunge into existential horror and paranoia.

And rather than, you know, getting into my uneven, uncomfortable and dusty bed, like a sensible person would, I had apparently decided that the icy wooden floor was a far superior alternative.

Yes.

Fucking

Brilliant.

My body felt strange, like I had to consciously remind it how to work. My muscles protested, my back was an old church bell fissured from overuse, and my head rang like a war drum in the distance. And, of course, to top it all off—

The window was open.

Of course it was.

Now my entire room was colder than a crypt.

“Great,” I muttered, pushing myself upright. My joints creaked, vertebrae grinding like corroded gears in a machine long overdue for repair. My body, protesting, seemed to be questioning me—why are we like this?

Regardless, I had work to do. As much as I’d love to sit here and conduct a thorough postmortem on the slow-motion catastrophe that was my life, I still had obligations. Gideon would be expecting some kind of report on Mr. Fontaine’s nocturnal activities—or lack thereof. That meant dragging myself upright, pretending to be a functional human, and surviving another day of going through the motions.

The book.

I looked at it again, debating whether I could just leave it here. Forget about it. Walk away and pretend it was someone else’s problem.

But leaving it unattended seemed… irresponsible. Like turning my back on a fire and assuming it wouldn’t spread.

I exhaled, buttoned up my coat, and tucked the book into my inside pocket, where no prying eyes could see it. It felt heavier than yesterday—like something had settled inside it overnight. Or maybe that was just smoke curling around my ribs.

The door, because my life was just that fantastic, chose to fight me on my way out. The blasted thing refused to budge, forcing me to wrestle with the lock until it finally gave way, letting me stumble into the streets of King’s Quarter.

A damp chill hung in the air, the kind that seeped into your bones and stayed there. The city was already waking—vendors calling out, boots echoing on cobblestone, the distant rattle of a cart bouncing across uneven pavement. And beneath it all, the ever-present stench of too many bodies crammed into too small a space.

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Nothing like the morning aroma of industry and unwashed humanity to get you going.

I started walking.

~ ~ ~

The street was too loud for the hour. Too loud for the headache pounding at the back of my skull like an angry blacksmith.

Market day. Fantastic.

The air was thick with the clashing scents of baking bread, roasting chestnuts, and the less pleasant stench of people packed too close together. Peddlers called out their prices, thrusting bruised fruit at passing customers. Somewhere in the crowd, a child wailed like they’d just been denied a second pastry.

I kept walking, my body still stiff and uncooperative from last night. My arm ached, my back groaned with each step, and I was moving more like a poorly strung marionette than an actual person. If I didn’t snap out of it soon, I was going to trip on a loose stone and die the most humiliating death in King’s Quarter.

I reached into my pocket, feeling for the apple I’d bought earlier. Food would probably help. Except, because nothing in my life could be simple, my fingers fumbled, and the damn thing slipped from my grip.

The apple hit the cobblestone with a dull thud and just kept rolling—right into the boot of some poor bastard standing nearby.

I muttered a curse and bent to pick it up.

And then I felt it.

A shift. A slow, creeping weight. The kind of presence that closed in around you before you noticed it was there.

Not before. Now.

The moment the apple dropped, it was like something had stirred awake.

My sluggish brain caught up. Someone was watching me.

I straightened stiffly, my eyes lifting.

A man.

He stood against a wall just past the fruit vendors, partially in shadow, arms crossed, stance casual. He had probably been there the whole time, just another face in the crowd, but—

Now he was staring.

Brow furrowed. Mouth half-open. Like he was surprised to see me. Like I had just materialized in front of him.

I clenched my fingers around the apple.

“Kieran? Is that you?”

The voice—gravelly, thinner than I remembered.

I squinted. The face was familiar, if you scraped away half the weight.

Benedict.

“Shit.” The word slipped out before I could stop it.

He blinked. “Didn’t even notice you were there until you dropped that.” He nudged the apple lightly with his boot. “Swear to god, you’ve always been a ghost or something.”

Yeah. A ghost. That tracks.

“Yeah, well.” I stooped to retrieve the apple. “I have that effect.”

Now that I got a better look at him, it was… unsettling. Benedict used to be built like a fortress, the kind of man you’d station in front of a tavern door just to discourage idiots from entering. Now he looked hollowed out. Like someone had scraped out everything inside and left the shell behind. His coat draped over him, too loose for his frame.

His eyes flickered to my jacket. Brief—just a second, if that. But I caught it.

Yes. The coat.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I sighed, brushing dust from my sleeve. “Nice expensive coat, huh? Sorry, it’s not mine.”

He smirked, but there was no malice in it. “I was just wondering when you got an upgrade.”

“Yeah, well.” I shrugged. “Guess hard work does pay off.”

That got a laugh.

“Bullshit.”

“Ahh,” I growled. “Absolutely.”

Then he really looked at me. Not just a glance—he assessed me. His gaze swept over my stance, the way I stood too rigid. His eyes lingered a second too long on the pocket where I’d tucked the book.

I had the sudden, stupid urge to tell him to mind his own damn business. But he didn’t say anything. Just nodded, like he’d considered something and let it go.

“Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said.

“Yeah, well. Been busy.”

He rubbed his hands together. “Anyway, just saying hello. Take care of yourself, yeah?”

“You too,” I muttered.

And then he was gone.

I let out a slow breath, rolling my shoulders, trying to shake the tension.

Paranoia was going to kill me at this rate.

I sighed, paid for another apple, and turned toward Gideon’s office.