Rain lashed the streets, hissing on the brass rooftops. In the silence after their narrow escape, every drop seemed like a question, every echo like an accusation.
The rebels regrouped in an abandoned tannery on the river's edge. Dozens of faces turned toward Elric as he entered—faces lined with soot, blood, and despair. Some whispered his name with reverence, others with suspicion.
"He knew," Selene said at last, her voice sharp as broken glass. "The Phantom knew every turn we would take. Someone fed him our steps."
The room stirred with unease.
Evangeline flinched. "Don't look at me." Her voice cracked, the words spilling fast, frantic. "I can't stop him when he reaches through the machines—but I didn't tell him anything. I swear it."
Selene's gaze was a blade. "He spoke to you through every gear. He likes you. Perhaps he chose you long before you chose us."
Evangeline's hands trembled, but her eyes flashed with sudden fury. "And what of you, shadow-walker? How many knives have you buried where no one could see?"
The two women stood inches apart, storm against storm.
Elric's cane struck the ground. The sound silenced them. "Enough." His voice was low, but it carried. "If there is a traitor among us, we will know soon enough. But suspicion is the Phantom's ally. He wins when we tear ourselves apart."
He looked at them both, his gray eyes unreadable. "Until proof rises, we are bound together. Betrayal thrives on doubt. We will not feed it."
But in the corner of the room, a boy whispered to another: "What if the detective himself is the traitor? How else does he always survive?"
And though Elric did not turn, he heard. He always heard.