The feeling hit me before I saw him fully. A shift in the air, subtle but sharp—the kind that makes your skin crawl even when your mind tells you everything's fine.
I turned.
The man stepped from behind a carved stone lantern, robes catching the lantern light just enough to show the threadbare embroidery. Not a monk. Not fully human either.
He had sharp cheekbones and eyes that seemed to drink everything in at once. And he smiled—not polite, not warm—but like he knew something I didn't, and he liked it.
"You're far from the Pavilion," he said, voice smooth. Not loud. Not threatening. Just… deliberate.
"I get around," I replied, tilting my head, dragging the cigarette smoke behind me like a ribbon. "And you? Watching the river?"
He chuckled softly. "Some of us prefer quiet observation. Easier than dealing with noise."
"Noise's fun," I said. "Except when it's boring."
He studied me then, eyes narrowing just slightly. "I think you like to provoke people."
"I think you like to read strangers too fast," I said. "But you might be right."
The corner of his mouth quirked. "Do you want trouble, or are you just saying that to fill the silence?"
I blew out a slow stream of smoke. "Depends on the company. You seem… tolerable."
He raised an eyebrow. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"Do it anyway," I said. "Compliments are rare around here."
He laughed, soft but genuine this time. And for a moment, just a small one, I realized the night wasn't about danger—it was about curiosity. About seeing if something could catch me off guard.
"Come," he said suddenly, walking past the low wall of the bridge. "You're going to ruin the river if you sit here all night."
I followed, walking along stones slick with moss. My heels weren't practical, but what did I care? A night like this deserved flair.
"You know," I said, glancing at him sideways, "if you're going to be mysterious, you should at least do something interesting."
He didn't look at me. Just adjusted his sleeve and said, "Interesting is relative. Depends what you're used to."
I snorted softly. "Then I'm used to disappointment."
"Good," he said without turning. "It makes things more… vivid."
I smiled. It wasn't the friendly kind—it was the amused, dangerous kind. One that said, I'm paying attention. I notice things.
We reached the temple gate. Lanterns hung from wooden beams, flickering in the night wind, casting long shadows over the worn stone stairs. I could feel him watching, and I didn't feel afraid. Not yet.
"You know," I said, "I normally don't talk to people like you. Especially ones that probably want to kill me eventually."
He stopped. Finally looked at me. "Eventually?"
"Eventually," I said. "Or sooner. Timing is everything."
He laughed, the sound low and amused. "I like you. You speak like you've survived worse than most."
"Because I have," I said simply. I flicked the cigarette and watched it fall into the river, hissing softly. "I don't brag about it. I just… mention it casually."
He raised his hands. "Fair. I appreciate honesty."
I grinned. "Good. Means I don't have to fake it."
We stood there for a long time, the only sounds the river, the occasional flutter of lanterns, and the far-off calls of monks tending incense. And for the first time that evening, I realized: not all threats have to be obvious. Some of the most interesting things just wait quietly. Watching. Waiting for you to make the first move.
And I always made the first move.