Trafalgar didn't ask her name. He didn't ask who sent her, or how many more were waiting beyond the walls of the café. He already knew the shape of this situation, the way it fit too neatly into patterns he had survived before. An isolated place just outside the city. A story vague enough to draw curiosity. Too many armed civilians sitting too comfortably close.
The dagger remained at her throat as his grip tightened, not with rage, but with the same measured control that guided everything else he did. The pressure increased little by little, enough for her breathing to turn shallow, enough for the truth to surface without words. The café stayed frozen around them, cups abandoned mid table, hands hovering uselessly near weapons no one dared to draw. Even Bartholomew, standing just behind Trafalgar, felt it, the moment slipping past the point of return. This wasn't intimidation. This was a decision being carried out.
The blade cut.
Just enough.
