The lines have changed.
I walk past without speaking.
Downstairs, the entry hall is different.
Where there used to be tapestries—fake, threadbare, more sentimental than valuable—there is now a series of framed photographs.
Some are landscapes, but most are people.
Not family portraits, but faces—men and women in mid-shout, in mid-laugh, in mid-fight.
The old guard, the new guard, everyone who made it through the last three years.
I run my finger along the glass of one—Niamh, in a suit, holding up a dart at the exact moment she realized she'd won the league.
Her grin is pure chaos, her hair wild and bright, eyes daring the camera to look away first.
Lena joins me at the bottom of the stairs.
"Did you ever think it would end like this?" I ask, not sure who I'm really talking to.
She shrugs.
"Did you?"
"No," I say.
"But I like it."
She smirks, then gestures to the new security panel by the front door.
"Want to see?"
We walk together.
The panel is a touchscreen, black glass inset into the wall, with biometric sensors at two heights—one for adults, one for children, or maybe just forthe days when you're not sure which you are.
I watch as Lena demonstrates the new protocol—a sequence of palm, thumb, and retina, so quick it could be mistaken for magic.
"Who else has clearance?" I ask.
"Just you, Ruairí, and Fiachra. Everyone else is tier two or lower. Not even the council can get in without a full alert."
"Good," I say, and I mean it.
We walk the length of the entry, past the new offices and the old safe rooms.
Every corner is clean, every surface polished.
The staff are a blend now—Crowley faces, Donnelly faces, a few surprises from the old enemy ranks.
It is a careful mix, curated for loyalty, for hunger, for the ability to see which way the wind is blowing and lean into it.
As I pass, a young woman in a white shirt nods at me, her face expressionless but her eyes sharp.
I recognize her as one of Moretti's old bookkeepers, turned after the cathedral.
She does not flinch as I return the nod.
