"He knows the persona of Nocturne." She downs the rest of her drink, then straightens her spine and becomes pure predator. "Stay close. Stay cold. And remember, everything you see is performance."
We cross to Koval's alcove, Marissa leading, me following with the kind of contained violence that makes people step aside. Koval watches our approach with calculating interest, his gaze lingering on Marissa in ways that make my jaw clench.
"Nocturne," he says, voice carrying the roughness of cigarettes and violence. "I heard rumors you'd gone to ground. The Iron Choir was very disappointed to lose one of their most effective assets."
"The Iron Choir's disappointment is not my concern." Marissa's voice is pure silk and steel. "I'm freelancing now. Taking contracts that interest me rather than following orders from people who undervalue my talents."
Koval's laugh is genuine, appreciative. "Undervalue? You were one of the Conductor's favorites. What happened?"
"The Conductor learned that favorites don't stay loyal when better opportunities present themselves." She gestures to me without looking back. "This is Archer. My specialist for security and logistics. He ensures my operations proceed without complications."
Koval's attention shifts to me, assessment sharp and calculating. I meet his gaze without flinching, letting him see exactly what Marissa described—someone who's dangerous and controlled, someone who would kill to protect the asset standing beside me.
"Ex-military?" Koval asks.
"Former," I correct, voice flat. "A good soldier never truly leaves the fight."
Marissa cuts in smoothly before Koval can probe further. "Does it matter?" Her tone carries just enough edge to suggest the question is finished. "What matters is he's good enough to keep me alive."
The tension in the alcove shifts, Koval reassessing our dynamic, measuring whether we're threat or opportunity. Then he laughs again, more genuine this time, and gestures for us to sit.
"I like you," he says to Marissa. "You always had the best taste in companions—deadly and loyal. What brings you to Berlin?"
Marissa settles into the seat across from him, all grace and calculated intimacy. "A business proposition. I have information about an upcoming operation. Something that would interest you very much if you're still connected to the Laurent acquisition."
Koval's expression doesn't change, but his associates tense. "The Laurent acquisition is sensitive territory. Why would I discuss it with a freelancer?"
"Because I have intelligence on security vulnerabilities that your people haven't identified. Intelligence that could mean the difference between successful acquisition and catastrophic failure." She leans forward, close enough to be intimate but not so close it's threatening. "I'm offering verification and enhancement. But not here. Not with this many ears listening."
Koval studies her in silence, weighing risk against opportunity. His hand reaches out, fingers brushing against her wrist where the crystal bracelets sit. The touch is casual, exploratory, testing boundaries.
My jaw clenches. I know it's a performance. Marissa warned me about boundary testing. Reacting will break cover and compromise the mission.
But his fingers linger on her skin, and she accepts the touch without pulling away. Every muscle in my body locks tight, ready to move, to act, to remove the threat. The urge to break his hand claws at my control, territorial and visceral. Mine to protect. Mine to guard. His touch isn't welcome.
I shift forward slightly, closing the distance between Marissa and me. The movement is subtle but unmistakable, claiming space, establishing boundaries. My hand settles on her back, fingers splayed across bare skin revealed by the cutouts in her dress.
Koval notices. His smile widens, gaining an edge that suggests he finds my reaction entertaining. "Your specialist is protective," he observes, still holding Marissa's wrist. "Does he understand that business sometimes requires... flexibility in personal boundaries?"
"Archer understands that I'm valuable," Marissa says smoothly, not pulling away from either of us. "And that value requires protection. Even from potential business partners who mistake professional interest for personal access."
The rebuke is gentle but clear. Koval releases her wrist, leaning back with something that might be respect in his expression. "Fair enough. I appreciate clear boundaries. Makes negotiations simpler." He pulls a card from his jacket, slides it across the table. "Tomorrow night. Come alone with your specialist. We'll discuss your intelligence and determine if it's worth my time."
"Tomorrow night," she agrees. "We'll bring verification you can independently confirm. And in return, you'll provide information on the acquisition timeline and security protocols."
"If your intelligence is genuine." Koval's tone carries warning. "If you're wasting my time or setting me up, Nocturne, remember that the Iron Choir has a long memory for betrayal."
"I remember," she says quietly. "That's why I left."
The meeting concludes with careful pleasantries that carry undercurrents of threat. Koval dismisses us with the kind of casual authority that suggests he controls everything in his territory. We withdraw from the alcove, making our way back through the club toward the exit.
My hand stays on Marissa's back the entire time, claiming and protective in ways that have nothing to do with cover and everything to do with what's still churning through me. She leans into the touch slightly, acknowledging it, maybe even welcoming it despite the distance we should be maintaining.
The rain has intensified by the time we reach street level, cold water cutting through the heat that's been building between us since we entered the club. We walk in silence to where I flag a cab, both of us processing the meeting and what comes next.
The hotel is quiet when we return, late enough that the lobby sits empty except for night staff who don't look up from their computers. The elevator ride to our floor feels routine on the surface, the moment where we should debrief the operation and separate into our respective rooms to sleep off the adrenaline.
Instead, the silence in the elevator is thick with tension and unspoken acknowledgment. My hand is still on her back, fingers pressed against bare skin in a touch that's lasted far longer than our cover required. She hasn't pulled away. Hasn't retreated into distance despite the mission being temporarily paused.
