The laughter lingered even after he vanished.
It wasn't loud, and it wasn't mocking. It was simply… amused. It was the sound of a spectator watching a play he already knew the ending to.
Elara folded the blank parchment slowly, her movements mechanical, and slid it into the silk of her sleeve. Her fingers were steady, but her pulse was a frantic, drumming thing.
The watch rested against her wrist like a patient predator, its ticking sounding softer now—almost satisfied, as if it had just finished a particularly good meal.
"You didn't have to take that," she said, her eyes fixed on the bookshop across the street.
The man appeared beside her without a sound, leaning against a stone post as though he had been there for centuries. "You didn't need it anymore, Elara."
"I was about to write," she replied, her voice cold. "I was about to document the truth."
"You were about to hesitate," he corrected.
That earned him a sharp glance.
His expression was mild, almost kind, which somehow made the weight of his presence worse. "You already know where this path ends," he continued, his voice a smooth caress. "Ink is only useful when doubt exists. You have no room for doubt."
Her jaw tightened. "You're enjoying this."
"Of course." He smiled faintly, his ancient eyes gleaming. "You're finally being honest with yourself. It's the most entertaining thing a human can be."
Elara turned away before she could say something reckless. Harlan Kest was still there, still breathing, still laughing with his companion. The world hadn't noticed a single thing change. The sun was still shining, the merchants were still shouting, and the man who would eventually sign her death warrant was currently deciding which book to buy.
That unsettled her more than blood would have. The indifference of the world was the ultimate insult.
"I need a system," she said abruptly, her voice hardening.
"Oh?" The man sounded genuinely intrigued.
"If memories are going to disappear—if you are going to steal pieces of me—then I won't rely on them," she went on. Her gaze sharpened, tracking a carriage as it rattled past. "I'll leave traces. Patterns. Physical proof that even a mind wiped clean cannot ignore."
"A ledger of your sins?" he suggested.
"A trap for theirs," she corrected.
The watch ticked once. A heavy, resonant sound.
Approval—or a warning? In this game, they felt like the same thing.
She began walking again, her steps slow and deliberate. She let the crowd swallow her, becoming just another hooded figure in the city's veins. "Harlan won't be the first to fall," she said. "But he'll be the first to understand."
"Understand what?"
"That lying about me was a mistake he won't live to repeat."
They crossed into a quieter street where the noise of the market faded into a dull hum.
Stone buildings rose close on either side, their shadows clinging to the edges of the cobblestones like ink. Elara stopped near a small fountain, the water catching the midday light as it danced over the weathered stone.
She frowned.
Something tugged at the back of her mind. A hollow sensation, like reaching for a cup that wasn't there.
Not pain. Absence.
"…Why did I stop here?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.
The man's gaze flicked to the fountain, then back to her face. "You like the sound of water," he said softly. "You used to say it helped you think."
She searched her mind. She looked for a childhood memory, a specific afternoon, a reason why a fountain in a quiet alley would pull at her heartstrings.
There was nothing. No image. No warmth.
Just… an explanation that felt borrowed from a stranger.
Her fingers curled slowly into her palms.
"So this is how it goes," she whispered. "Not the important things first. You take the small joys. The pieces that make life worth living."
"No," he agreed, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. "Those come later. I prefer to start with the decorations."
She straightened her back, forcing the cold unease down into the pit of her stomach.
Fear was a luxury she couldn't afford. Panic was for the girl who had died on the platform.
"If I forget," she said, looking him dead in the eye, "you'll tell me."
He didn't answer immediately. He only tilted his head, his smile remaining perfectly fixed.
That silence was answer enough. He was a dealer, not a friend.
Elara smiled anyway—a sharp, controlled expression that was more a baring of teeth.
"Then I'll assume everything you say is a lie."
His eyes gleamed with genuine delight.
"Good. You're learning."
They parted at the next corner. He vanished back into the shadows, leaving nothing behind but the faint, metallic scent.
Elara didn't look back.
That night, she didn't sleep. The luxury of rest felt like a trap.
Instead, she sat at her desk and lit a single, flickering candle. She watched the wax drip, then began to write. Not names, not dates, not intricate plans—but rules. Core directives that she would follow even if the 'why' was erased from her soul.
Never trust kindness without proof of intent.
Never confront an enemy without a witness you control.
Never act without leverage that cannot be bought.
She paused, her pen hovering over the parchment. Her wrist warmed, the metal of the watch beginning to thrum against her skin. The ticking grew louder, echoing in the quiet room like a heartbeat.
She wrote the last rule quickly, the ink wet and dark, before the thought could vanish into the void.
If the watch ticks faster—run.
She set the pen down and leaned back, staring at the list until the words burned themselves into her vision. She would memorize these until they were instinct, not memory.
Outside, somewhere in the vast, sleeping city, Harlan Kest slept peacefully in his bed.
He had no idea the clock had already started for him.
Elara blew out the candle.
Revenge was no longer about the past she remembered. It was about the momentum of the future she was building.
And time—
Time was already slipping through her fingers like sand.