Antoril at night was a different creature.
Lights hung from high windows like tired eyes, and the alleys breathed a damp mix of yeast, tobacco, and poorly hidden urgency. Some streets had music. Others, too much silence.
And there we were, walking side by side like part of something rehearsed — even if we didn't exactly know the script.
She walked half a step ahead. As always.
Wore a dark, lightweight dress that swayed with grace at each confident stride. I followed, hands in pockets, eyes scanning corners, alleys, shadows.
From a distance, we might've looked like a well-adjusted couple of travelers. Up close, anyone could tell only one of us knew how to fake it properly.
"What if no one wants to talk?" she said suddenly, voice lower than usual. "What if people only say nonsense? Or if no one important shows up at the bar?"
