She didn't glance over her shoulder. It didn't break stride. She just adjusted the collar of her coat with a small, almost absent gesture and kept walking, unhurried, calm.
But something in the way her steps settled against the ground had shifted. Not from exhaustion. Not from fear. Just… thought.
Not the kind of idle processing that fills space on a quiet night, but the focused kind.
The kind that pulled together details from half a dozen threads—sigils carved and overwritten, buildings placed too precisely, surveillance that didn't blink or breathe but still felt warm with presence.
It wasn't paranoia, it wasn't even suspicion.
It was the way everything had fit together a little too well.
Not guiding her toward a trap.
Not steering her away, either.
Just placed.
Set.
Curated.
And the fact her instincts weren't screaming—that was what had her more alert than anything else.
