The tavern sat at the corner of a narrow alley.
They took a table against the wall, where the window framed only a curved stretch of canal.
Ayla placed her bag by her feet, her fingers tapping lightly against the flap. She could clearly feel the outline of the mask inside.
Jeff sat across from her, his gaze occasionally drifting toward the entrance, fingers unconsciously rubbing the rim of his glass. A habit shaped by years of operating alone.
Emilia sat slightly to the side, hands folded on the table, posture straight. When Jeff's gaze passed over her, she adjusted subtly, keeping their lines of sight aligned.
When the server released the glass, the wine trembled in place.
Ayla's hand froze mid-air.
She looked down at the reflection of her face in the dark surface of the drink.
A faint feedback pulsed from inside her bag.
Fragments surged into her mind.
A sloping path.Loose gravel.The instant her footing vanished—the hollow suspension before impact.
A corrupted loop, replaying.
Her chest tightened sharply. Her fingers clenched, nails digging into her palm.
Jeff noticed first.
He didn't look at her face. His eyes fixed on her hands, registering the slight delay in her response time.
He shifted his glass aside, subtly blocking the server's path_override.A practiced motion. Protective. Automatic.
Ayla looked up and met his eyes.
In that moment, she understood—he wasn't entering her emotional space anymore.He wasn't trying to dismantle her panic.
The version of him who would first confirm her condition before anything else had been carefully folded away, sealed by something in the past.
"That wasn't a memory," Jeff said quietly, just loud enough for her to hear. No emotion."It was a residual image."
A pause.
"Preserved too completely."
Only then did Emilia raise her head. She checked Jeff's expression first, confirming his emotional stability, before turning to Ayla.
"My name is Emilia Cross."
Ayla loosened her grip slightly and nodded. "Ayla."
In that instant, Ayla realized something fundamental.
He wasn't alone anymore.
He was being held—simultaneously—by different layers, different agendas. He could no longer decide direction by himself.
The tavern door stirred.
A man stepped inside, hands in his pockets. His gaze swept the room before settling briefly on the canal outside.
"Good tempo in here," he said casually.
He stopped three steps from their table, lowering his voice."Sorry. Not here to intrude."
Ayla said nothing. She recognized him.
Elias Moreau.
Unremarkable in a crowd. Plain shirt.Yet impossible to overlook once he spoke.
His eyes flicked to Ayla's bag."The mask isn't activated. Just a probe."
Then the canal again."Venice's problem is that its history is too complete."
"Fractures don't heal. They replicate."
He turned back to them."This kind of residual appears once. After that, it relocates—seeking deeper cracks."
His gaze settled on Jeff, lingering half a second longer than necessary.
"You know the next stop."
A precise look. A partial signal. Enough.
He left. The door curtain swayed twice, then stilled.
The tavern fell quiet. Even the air felt heavier.
Ayla rested her hand on her bag, fingers brushing the cold leather before pulling away.
She looked at Jeff, voice low but firm."I came to find you."
A beat.
"I was afraid you'd get hurt walking alone."
She held his gaze, repeating it—not softer, but clearer.
"I'm afraid that if you walk alone now, something will go wrong."
Jeff didn't answer immediately. His eyes lowered to the wine, studying his reflection.
He weighed the cost behind her words.The consequences of companionship.The drag of shared trajectories.
"Then we go together."
He looked up. Flat tone. Final.Not reassurance. Confirmation.
Emilia, seated beside them, said nothing. She simply nodded once.
Under the table, Patch shifted from a curled position to lying flat. His tail tapped the floor—once, twice. Even. Measured.
As if accepting a new configuration.A new alignment.A new route.
Next stop.
Florence.
Fractures do not disappear.And no one walks this far alone.