Kaine adjusted the cuff of his coat for the third time in as many minutes, leaning against a lamp post outside his apartment building. The evening had some kind of Parisian chill—crisp, quiet, biting just enough to remind you summer was done pretending. The wind carried the faint scent of gasoline and old bread, punctuated by the occasional blur of perfume from passersby.
He glanced at his watch. Rebecca was only four minutes late. Not enough for irritation. But Kaine didn't like standing still. Never had.
His coat was long, matte black, unzipped just enough to reveal the tactical undershirt beneath—a compromise between dinner-date and walking arsenal.
Then he caught the scent.
Not blood. Not death. Something floral.
"You're early," came a voice.
He turned, and there she was.
