Benedict stirred his coffee, slow, measured, the motion so perfectly casual it could've belonged to any businessman passing through the Fitzgeralt district for a client meeting. To anyone watching, he was unremarkable, an expensively forgettable man in a dark wool coat, brown hair artfully tousled, blue eyes dulled just enough to blend in.
The restaurant around him buzzed with soft chatter, the kind born of wealth and comfort: porcelain cups, crisp laughter, and the faint hum of a string quartet recording. His reflection in the window was still, composed, but his gaze wasn't fixed on himself.
It was on the mansion across the avenue.
No, not a mansion. A fortress wrapped in marble and vines, sprawling and self-assured, just like the man who owned it. The Fitzgeralt estate stood proud among the noble quarter, sunlight glinting against its white stone facade. Every balcony was guarded, every window veiled in discreet layers of glass and silence.
