The city does not pretend to be quiet.
It hums.
Metal striking metal.
Voices layered over one another.
Fabric snapping in dry wind.
Heat rising from stone like something alive beneath it.
I don't look for him.
If he wants to be seen, he will be.
I walk through the market without slowing. Eyes forward. Shoulders relaxed. A stranger here, but not uncertain.
Someone brushes my sleeve.
Too deliberate.
I don't react.
Three stalls ahead, a vendor drops a crate.
It doesn't fall.
It is pushed.
Oranges roll across the street.
People curse. Step back. Block the main path.
Of course.
I turn left into a side alley before the crowd fully gathers.
Narrow.
Shade trapped between walls.
Cooler, but close.
Footsteps behind me.
Not rushing.
Matching.
Good.
He wants to see if I break pace.
I don't.
The alley splits.
One path wider.
One barely shoulder-width.
The narrow one would slow most people.
I take it.
Fabric lines hang low across the passage. I don't duck.
I lift a hand, sweep them aside without breaking stride.
Behind me—
No hesitation.
He knew I would choose compression over exposure.
Annoying.
The alley ends at a dead wall.
I don't stop.
Two steps up the stacked crates.
Hand on a windowsill.
Pull.
Boot on brick.
I'm on the lower roof before the crate settles back into place.
Clay tiles shift beneath my weight.
Loose.
Sun-warmed.
Unstable.
Below, someone shouts.
I move higher.
Across one roof. Then another.
Laundry snaps against my shoulder as I pass. Pigeons explode upward in a flurry of wings.
Still no panic in the footsteps behind me.
No scrambling.
Just controlled ascent.
He's comfortable above ground.
That narrows his weaknesses.
I increase speed.
Not reckless.
Testing.
A longer gap between buildings approaches.
Most would hesitate.
I don't.
Two steps.
Jump.
Land low.
The tiles crack under impact but hold.
Behind me—
The gap is cleared with the same economy.
Distance maintained.
He isn't trying to catch me.
He's measuring endurance.
Stride length.
Balance.
Decision timing.
Fine.
I slow abruptly.
Pivot right instead of left.
Cut across a sloped copper roof that burns through thin soles.
The metal reflects the sun hard enough to blur edges.
If he misjudges angle, he slips.
He doesn't.
Of course he doesn't.
I reach the narrow spine of a rooftop that tapers into nothing but open air.
Only space for one body at a time.
I walk to the end.
Stop.
Let the silence stretch.
Footsteps approach.
Measured.
Unbothered.
He steps onto the spine like it was built for him.
Sleeveless coat catching light.
Gold earring flashing once in the sun.
Moustache sharp as if even the heat respects it.
No weapon drawn.
Not yet.
"You favor height," he says.
I don't turn fully.
"Less crowded."
A small breath of amusement.
Below us, the city continues without concern.
A bell rings.
Someone laughs.
A door slams.
Life moving under predators.
"You changed rhythm three times," he says. "You wanted to see if I would mirror you."
I face him now.
"And?"
"You were correct."
I study him openly.
No strain in his posture.
No excess breath.
No irritation.
Just data being filed.
"You staged the market," I say.
"Yes."
"Crates?"
"Yes."
"Clotheslines?"
A flicker. Almost approval.
"I prefer controlled environments."
"You prefer walls," I correct.
"And you prefer pretending you don't."
That earns the faintest narrowing of my eyes.
Heat presses between us.
Not hostile.
Not yet.
He steps closer.
Not invading.
Testing the balance of the narrow spine.
It holds both our weight.
"Most people," he says calmly, "would have tried to disappear."
"I'm not most people."
"No."
Silence again.
Wind tugs at the edge of his coat.
I realize something then.
He never once accelerated.
He never once lunged.
This wasn't pursuit.
It was assessment.
"You're satisfied?" I ask.
"For today."
That almost irritates me.
Almost.
He tilts his head slightly.
"You adapt well, Isobel."
He says my name like he's been using it privately.
I don't react.
If he keeps his focus here, he won't shift it elsewhere.
That's the objective.
He steps back first.
Again.
Deliberate.
"You'll find the city more interesting at dusk," he says. "Shadows create honesty."
"I prefer sunlight."
"Yes," he replies quietly. "I noticed."
He turns.
Walks back along the spine without looking down.
Doesn't hurry.
Doesn't check if I follow.
He already knows I won't.
I remain where I am until he vanishes across the rooftops.
Only then do I allow myself one measured breath.
He's building a profile.
That's fine.
I'm building one too.
Below us, Dillaclor hums on.
Sun-struck.
Unapologetic.
Alive.