The conversation started without anyone planning it.
They were at Vivian's house again. Ana had managed to come up with a decent excuse, and Madeleine had accompanied her. Brittany was sitting on the floor, her back against the couch, staring at the open notebook as if it owed her an explanation.
—We've been doing this for weeks —she said suddenly—. Listening. Waiting. Writing down things that almost never change.
No one contradicted her.
Vivian carefully closed the notebook.
—So what do you suggest?
Brittany ran a hand through her hair.
—I don't know. But this whole staying still thing… it feels useless.
We could ask more questions. Talk to people in Trenton. Go look around the neighborhood, even if it's from a distance.
Ana immediately looked up.
—No.
The word came out sharply.
—The last time one of us went somewhere we shouldn't have, we ended up gagged in our own living room or running through a forest.
We're not going to Trenton just to "look around from a distance."
Madeleine rested her elbows on her knees.
—Ana is right about one thing.
If he follows the same pattern, we don't need to chase him. Sooner or later, he'll show up again.
But I understand Brittany too.
Waiting is exhausting. And it scares you in a different way.
Vivian looked at the three of them.
She had thought the same thing more than once. At night, when the notebook had nothing left to offer, the idea of doing something—anything—became tempting. Calling unknown numbers. Taking a bus. Asking questions in places where they had no business being.
But then she remembered the van.
The warehouse.
The boss's voice telling them they could only run.
—If we become proactive —she said slowly—, we cross a line.
Until now, we've only gathered what already happened.
If we start looking for him… we stop being just witnesses.
Brittany clenched her jaw.
—And if we never do anything, we'll be afraid for the rest of our lives and still have no answers.
Silence settled heavily over them.
Ana spoke again, more quietly:
—I already said that if this gets too weird, I'm out.
I'm still here.
But I'm not signing up for a trip to an alley where someone already died.
Madeleine nodded slowly.
—So… do we keep holding back? Or do we take a little risk?
Vivian looked at the closed notebook.
—We hold back.
For now.
But not forever.
If another clear sign appears… we talk about it again. And we decide together.
Brittany didn't look completely convinced, but she didn't argue either.
—Okay.
We'll hold back.
For a little longer.
None of them said out loud what all four were thinking:
that waiting also had a limit.
And that limit was getting closer.
---
Ryan was in his room, staring at the dark ceiling.
He had gone to watch them twice that week. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just rooftops, distance, and a little magic to keep himself unseen. He had watched them meet. He had caught the tone of the conversation, though not every word. Frustration. Caution. The typical debate between doing something and doing nothing.
He smiled to himself.
They were exactly where he wanted them to be: scared enough not to act stupidly, and curious enough that they couldn't forget about it.
Now came the part that interested him the most.
What would the first real encounter be like?
Not the kind where he saved them or killed someone in front of them. That had already happened.
He was talking about a conversation. Face to face. Or mask to face.
He imagined climbing down from a rooftop, or appearing at the end of an empty street, or even sending a balloon first to announce that he was going to talk. He remembered the tone of those old letters: mocking, direct, never asking permission. "You've been hired." "No is not an acceptable answer."
He could use something similar.
Appear, greet them in that elegant and slightly theatrical voice, and tell them he already knew they were investigating him. That he wasn't angry. That, in fact, he found it entertaining. And then… what? Answer some questions? Ask them others? Warn them that the game had rules?
Ryan ran a hand over his face.
The problem wasn't how.
The problem was when.
If he appeared too soon, he'd solve the mystery for them, and the fun of watching them think would be over.
If he waited too long, they risked doing exactly what Brittany had suggested: becoming proactive and getting involved where they shouldn't.
He sat up in bed and turned on the lamp.
He opened his notebook and wrote, without rushing:
First contact (mental draft)
– Do not reveal Ryan's identity.
– Keep the voice and tone of the letters.
– Make it clear that I know they're investigating.
– Don't give complete answers.
– Measure how far they're willing to go.
He underlined the last line.
That was what mattered.
Not just talking.
Measuring.
He closed the notebook and left it on the table.
It wasn't time yet.
They could endure a little more waiting.
But the limit existed.
For them.
And for him as well.
---
The next day at school, Vivian and Brittany barely talked about the subject. Just a quick exchange by the lockers.
—Are you still thinking about yesterday? —Brittany asked.
—Yes.
But the decision stands.
We hold back.
Brittany nodded, although she didn't seem completely at peace with it.
—I'm just saying, if something else weird happens… I don't know how much longer I'll be able to sit still.
Vivian closed her locker.
—If something else weird happens, we'll talk about it.
All four of us.
There was no need to say anything else.
---
That night, Ryan looked out the window again.
He didn't go spy on them.
He simply stayed there, thinking about the conversation he would have with them someday.
He imagined their faces when they recognized his voice.
The mixture of fear and anger.
The questions they wouldn't be able to avoid asking.
He smiled in the darkness.
Not yet.
But the limit of waiting
had already begun to make itself felt
on both sides of the board.