The fog thinned by the docks, replaced by the salt tang of low tide and the creak of wood against stone. Lanterns swung on iron hooks outside the Drunken Gull, casting orange halos across wet cobblestones.
Adrian pushed through the tavern door, letting the din swallow him whole — laughter, the scrape of chairs, the clink of glasses. Smoke curled from pipes and candles alike, mixing with the scent of spilled rum and fried fish.
On the far side of the room, framed by shadows and a battered velvet curtain, she was singing.
Her voice was like honey left too long in the sun — sweet, but with something that could scorch if you lingered. The woman was tall, dark hair spilling over her bare shoulders, and her gown shimmered with threads of gold when the lamplight caught it.
The song itself was old, a sailor's ballad about a woman waiting on the shore for a ship that never returned. But the way she sang it… she made it sound like a curse.
Adrian found himself moving closer without meaning to.
Greaves was at the bar already, talking to the barkeep, but his eyes flicked to Adrian with the faintest smirk. "Her name's Liora," he said. "Word is, she knows every whisper in this part of the city — for the right price."
When the song ended, the crowd roared, mugs slamming on tables. Liora bowed her head, then turned toward the back hallway. Adrian followed, weaving past drunken sailors and card players.
He caught her by the wrist just before she vanished through a door. "I need to talk to you," he said.
She arched one eyebrow, gaze flicking down to where his hand held hers. "Detective?" she guessed, voice low, smoky. "You don't look like the kind who comes here for conversation."
"I'm looking for someone," Adrian said. "A woman in the fog. They call her the Widow."
Something flickered across Liora's expression — a shadow too quick to pin down. She pulled her wrist free, but didn't step away. "I've heard the song she hums. I've also heard the screams that come after. What makes you think you're any different from the men she's taken?"
"I've seen her work up close," Adrian replied. "I don't intend to end up part of it."
She studied him for a moment, eyes catching the faint glint from the streetlamp spilling in through the hallway window. "Come back after my last set," she said finally. "Bring coin. And leave your partner at the bar."
Then she leaned in — close enough that her breath warmed his ear — and whispered, "If you're going to hunt her, you'll need more than a gun. You'll need to give her something she wants."
By the time Adrian straightened, she was gone, the sound of her heels clicking on the wooden stairs above.
Greaves appeared at his side, brows raised. "Well?"
"She'll talk," Adrian said, scanning the stairwell. "But it'll cost us. And she just made it very clear — the Widow's not just hunting bodies. She's hunting desires."