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“No,” I said.

The surveillance room bent around the word.

Everything stopped.

Kalon straightened. Olivia turned on him with a flash of wounded temper, and there she was again, my furious little moral disaster. He said something. She argued. He answered.

Then his voice carried clean through the feed.

“Come to my house.”

The room went still.

Olivia’s gaze drifted to the roses.

Then the dead cameras.

Then the corner where the final lens watched.

Toward me.

My pulse slowed.

There you are, Little Flower.

“My masked problem might follow,” she said.

Kalon’s jaw flexed. “Let him try.”

I smiled. My Little Flower had left me broken electronics and a dare.

I grabbed my mask from the side table. The room always felt better when I wore it. Less human. More honest.

I pulled it down over my face and the world narrowed. Edges sharpened. Light became angles. Breath became purpose. Hunger became something with a handle.

The weapons drawer opened beneath my hand.

Knife in my coat. Second blade in my boot. Charm-breaker in my pocket. Binding wire, because one should always leave room for improvisation. A vial of ward ash, because Deathdrinkers tended to decorate their homes with old magic and smug intentions. A spare microcamera rolled around in the drawer, bumping my knuckles. I picked it up and stared at the camera in my palm and the gift in the other hand. One said, I have learned nothing and do not regret it. The other said, I pay attention to your hobbies and intend to ruin your sleep schedule. I set the spare camera beside the gift. Was it impulsive to add the camera and see if she would just smash it? Sure. Fun? Absolutely.

Then I reached for the file Vale had prepared on Kalon.

Thick.

Insultingly thick.

Kalon Veyr. Deathdrinker. Old family. Clean record. Financially stable. No current clan affiliation. No known mate. No current employer outside of New Abaddon City Coffee.

I flipped the file open as I walked.

House in the old North District. Inherited. Layered wards. Private security. Registered familiar.

A grainy photo showed a long-haired gray cat with a smashed face and the expression of a creature who had personally judged God and found him lacking.

Name: Calcifer.

I stared at the photo.

“Of course he has a cat.”