Selene fell into step as they left the manor, heels soft on the stone. Her voice was low, easy—an invitation wrapped in curiosity.
"Walk me home?" she asked, almost casual. "There's a bar on the way. Quiet. I'd like to talk more. Maybe… show you something."
Valeria's head snapped up before Emma could. Her hand tightened on Emma's sleeve, eyes flashing. "No. You don't go alone with—"
Emma cut her off with one quiet motion: she stepped forward, turned, and pressed a flat hand to Valeria's shoulder. The gesture was small, almost tender, but firm.
"Go without me," Emma said, voice steady. "Keep watch. If anything happens, you're my phone, not my sword."
Valeria stared for a second, pissed and worried both. "You're serious?" she hissed.
Emma's thumb brushed her shoulder once—reassurance without sentiment. "Don't worry."
Valeria opened her mouth, then closed it. She gave one short nod, the sort that means she'll follow orders even if she thinks they're wrong. She melted back into the night toward the cars and the watching points they'd agreed on.
Emma turned to Selene. The older woman's smile widened—easy, pleased—and she offered her arm. Emma didn't take it; she just fell into pace beside her.
They walked through quiet streets. Selene talked—soft stories about operations, about the women at the meeting, about methods and failures. Emma listened, eyes on the pavement, measuring tone, cadence, the small tells that give a person away.
Selene steered them to a narrower lane and then a low, elegant building with a small, private bar downstairs. It smelled faintly of cedar and lemon. The clientele was sparse, the music low. Selene signaled a nodded hello to a bartender who knew her by sight.
They sat in a corner booth. Selene ordered something amber and neat, then put her hands on the table—unabashed interest in Emma, not a predator but a collector. "You said you want to test me," Selene said, smiling. "Do it."
Emma watched her for a long moment, then asked a single, precise question: "Why help me fight Vencor? What do you get from it?"
Selene's expression didn't change—she'd expected that. She leaned forward, voice soft and honest in a way that felt practiced. "Because I hate cowards. Because I've watched men like him break people and call it balance. Because I want to see the city breathe without their poison. And—" she looked at Emma directly—"because you can make them afraid in ways we haven't yet learned."
Emma tested a few of Selene's facts—names, dates, operational details—watching the micro-shifts on her face. Selene answered each with calm confidence, and where she paused, she filled the gaps with plausibility rather than panic.
It wasn't trust. It was intelligence gathering dressed as social courtesy. Emma's face remained still, but inside she filed away every nuance: the way Selene's left hand hesitated over the glass, the slight tightening around her eyes when Vencor's name came up, the honest anger she couldn't hide when Selene mentioned trafficked children.
After a long drink and a string of small questions, Emma's posture eased just a fraction. She wasn't sold—she never was on a first walk—but Selene had passed enough to be worth watching.
Selene stood and offered her hand. "Good. I like people who test me. It means they're not naïve."
Emma didn't smile; she took the hand for a second, firm and cool.
Outside, the night wrapped them again. Selene's steps were lithe, confident. Emma walked beside her, neither yielding nor inviting. They were both measuring the other—predator and judge—each curious what the other would do next.
Back at the car, Valeria met them, eyes unreadable. She looked at Selene, then at Emma, then finally exhaled. "You tested her?" she asked.
Emma nodded once. "She's useful. She's dangerous. We keep her close."
Valeria grunted, not entirely pleased, but she accepted it.
They drove back to the hideout — the city's lights sliding by like small beacons of war.