Ronan sat inside the public carriage and kept his eyes on the floorboards, doing what he could not to shift in his seat.
Across from him Charles sat without moving much, his gaze resting on Ronan the way a man might watch a clock tick.
The carriage rattled over the stones, and other passengers filled the benches around them, talking low or staring out the small windows. None of them seemed to notice the quiet that had settled between the two men.
Ronan felt a faint itch along his scalp that would not go away. Three days had passed since the alley.
Three full days and no one had come to his door. No investigators, and no sign of the thing with the crimson eyes. For a while he had wondered if Charles had died that night and the others simply never connected him to it.
But the man sitting opposite looked solid enough, pipe in hand, smoke curling slow from the bowl.
Charles stayed silent, drawing on the pipe now and then as if the whole ride meant nothing.
The carriage slowed at a crowded crossing, wheels grinding. After a few seconds Charles spoke.
"You seem nervous, Mister Percy."
Ronan felt a small relief at the sound of a voice breaking the quiet. "Isn't that normal after everything?"
"True," Charles said.
The silence tried to settle again, but Ronan pushed through it. "Are you following me?"
Charles let out another thin stream of smoke before setting the pipe into a small metal case inside his coat. "You boarded the carriage I was already riding."
Ronan had no answer for that. He had seen Charles when he stepped in, hat low, but had not paid attention until the man lifted his head. Too late by then. "I see," Ronan muttered, the words coming out uneven.
He hesitated, then asked the next thing that pressed at him. "So are you going to question me about that night?"
Charles leaned back against the worn leather. "I doubt you know more than I do. I already know you were not involved." Ronan felt his shoulders loosen a fraction until Charles added,
"Though there are still questions about your situation. Such as why you turned down that other street instead of going home."
Ronan's chest tightened for a beat. Charles continued without raising his voice. "Humans act on impulse sometimes. All I ask is that you stay quiet about what you saw."
Ronan stared at him, the words sinking in. So he really had been watching.
The carriage kept moving after that. Neither spoke again. Ronan waited for Charles to get off at some stop ahead, but the man stayed seated.
When the carriage finally halted near Beningham Street and Ronan paid his fare and stepped down, Charles followed right behind. Ronan's face went stiff. He forced himself to keep walking toward the tailor shop as if nothing were wrong.
Footsteps stayed steady at his back. Charles made no effort to hide the fact that he was there.
Ronan's jaw tightened. What kind of investigator trails a man in plain sight like this? Before the thought could run further, Charles walked past him and straight into the shop. Ronan stopped for a moment, then followed.
Inside, Charles was already at the front counter speaking with Silia. Ronan felt a quick pull of curiosity but pushed it down and moved to his own workstation instead.
He began sorting through the fabrics there, listening without trying to catch words. Is he reporting me? The idea sat heavy for a second before he shook it off. Probably not.
He kept his hands busy until Silia looked his way. Ronan's back went rigid on its own, but she only smiled and pointed toward him while saying something to Charles. Charles nodded and came over.
He set a black overcoat on the workstation without any greeting.
"Fix this for me."
Ronan looked down. Long tears ran across the sleeve and side, the edges ragged as if something with claws had dragged through the cloth.
For a moment the image of the crimson-eyed creature flashed behind his eyes. "Oh," he said quietly.
He picked the coat up and checked the damage closer. "I'll have it ready by tomorrow."
Charles gave one short nod and turned for the door. Once he was gone the shop filled with the usual noise of the day. Workers arrived one after another, voices rising, scissors snapping through cloth, the low hum of conversation.
Ronan stayed at his station with the overcoat in front of him. He worked carefully, pulling thread through each tear with steady fingers, making sure every stitch sat flat.
The last thing he wanted was to give an investigator any reason to look at him twice, especially one who had faced that thing in the alley and walked away whole.
The thought stayed with him. If their places had been switched he would be dead by now, no question. It made the needle feel heavier in his hand.
He tried to keep his mind on the work, but the alley kept coming back in pieces—the wet stone, the low breathing, the way the creature had moved.
Every so often his attention slipped and he missed a stitch or pulled too tight. Some of them had noticed his behaviour of frequent blunder and noticed his grim expression that he was trying to hide under a nonchalant face .
Gareth passed by with an armful of folded cloth. "Something bothering you today?"
Ronan shook his head once. "Didn't sleep well."
Later Miss Gracy asked if he still felt off from the hospital stay. He smiled and said he was fine.
They left it at that. Outwardly he kept moving through the tasks, but inside the thoughts would not settle.
The coat lay there like a reminder he could not fold away, and the day stretched on with the same low tension running under every motion.
He decided to concentrate once more since ruining the coat of that person was not an ideal outcome he wanted .