Behind her, every time she let her eyes shift for even a moment—there it was again. A flicker of movement that disappeared too fast to track.
A sliver of shadow that shifted just as her foot landed. In the glass of a nearby display case, a figure passed behind her reflection—slow, deliberate, unhurried in a way that only made it stand out more.
She didn't stop but angled slightly toward a vendor selling old pocket watches. Not to buy, not even to engage, just enough to lean in and murmur under her breath, "Someone's blending pressure into comfort.
Subtle technique. Old." The vendor didn't flinch. He wasn't part of the conversation—and never was meant to be.
She kept moving.
Two minutes later, she cut left sharply, slipping into a narrow spillway tunnel barely wider than her shoulders.
Concrete was pressed in on both sides, and the overhead space was just enough to duck through without scraping her back.
