The day broke heavy with fog — the kind that hung low and clung to everything. The city felt muffled, as if holding its breath.

The bell above the door jingled as he stepped in.

She looked up from the counter, hands dusted with pollen. “Morning,” she said, warm but reserved. “Can I help you?”

He held up the tulip — the one from the dock unit.

“I was hoping to return this.”

She gave a small, polite laugh. “Bit outside our return policy.”

He smiled faintly, then stepped closer. “Yellow tulips aren’t easy to find this time of year.”

“They’re not,” she agreed, meeting his gaze. “We grow a few in the back. Mostly for special requests.”

He nodded, watching her. “You always this helpful with strangers?”

“Only the ones who bring flowers,” she said, then gestured to the counter. “You can set it there.”

He did. Then offered his hand.

“Nathan Cross.”

She hesitated — just for a fraction too long — before taking it.

“Lena Rowe.”

“A pleasure,” he said.

She tilted her head slightly. “You here for anything else, Mr. Cross?”

He studied her for a moment. “Maybe. Haven’t decided yet.”

“Well, if it’s flowers, I can help.” She turned toward the back room. “If it’s something else… I’m sure you’ll let me know.”

He didn’t stop her. Just stood there for a few seconds more before turning to leave.

Elsewhere, Marco was testing boundaries.

The data drive he’d handed Vasha had been real. Too real.
Six names. All mid-level operators, whispering of power shifts and succession plans.

One of them — Klemens — vanished the night after the list reached Eve’s hands.

No body. Just a blood-smeared watch found at the edge of the river.

The message was clear: No one replaces the queen unless she says so.

But Marco hadn’t done it for strategy.
He’d done it for love.

And Vasha saw that.

“You’re not protecting the empire,” she said, cornering him in the stairwell of a run-down safehouse. “You’re fighting ghosts. You’re trying to win her back.”

Marco didn’t deny it.

“She made me,” he said. “She built this city and she built me.”

“And what happens when she doesn’t choose you back?”

Marco’s jaw tightened.

“She doesn’t have to choose,” he said. “She owns.”

Vasha looked at him like she was seeing something broken beneath all that fire.

“I hope you remember that when it’s you she sacrifices.”

---

Later that night, Nathan made a call he shouldn’t have.

He looped in an internal affairs contact.
No names. Just a whisper:
“There’s someone hiding in plain sight. Pulling strings. Too clean to be real.”

He didn’t give an address. No photos.
Just enough breadcrumbs to start a murmur — a digital ripple in a back channel.

Somewhere in the shuffle, the word “Hallow” slipped into a side report. No context. No anchor.
Just a ghost in the system.

Nothing solid.
But enough to make the wrong people curious.

And curiosity had a body count.

---

Eve knew before sunrise.

Not because Nathan had said anything.
He hadn’t.
Because he didn’t know. Not really.

But something had shifted.

A glance that lingered too long.
A customer with too many questions.
A digital trace she hadn’t left.

Eve stood by the apartment window, still as the skyline beyond.
The city glimmered, oblivious.

She had a choice.
Vanish. Cut the ties — Marco, Nathan, the shop.
Or stay. Let the trap tighten. And choose where it snapped.

Behind her, a burner buzzed once.
No name. No message. Just a timestamp.

She dropped the phone into a glass of water.
Then reached for another and dialed.

Marco picked up on the first ring.

“Ready to come home?” she asked.

“I never left,” he said.