“Fear the waters when they run red — but fear far more the quiet butcher who shaped the riverbank.”                     — A Frightened Man

  I awoke at my usual early hour, the soft chime of the dorm’s ambient lighting signalling dawn. Preparations for the day’s outing followed: bathing, grooming, and—most time-consuming—the selection of attire. With my newly acquired wardrobe, choices abounded. After nearly an hour of deliberation—balancing formality with comfort and elegance with practicality—I settled on a charcoal-grey suit (tailored yet relaxed); a crisp white shirt open at the collar; black gloves, of course; and a pair of polished oxfords. The vulture-skull cane remained behind today; I wanted to travel lightly.

  I made my way to the break room adjacent to the dorm café, settling into a leather armchair to wait for the opening. Jules occupied the opposite seat, engrossed in explicit content on his phone. He glanced up briefly, gave a distracted grunt, then announced he needed the bathroom—adjusting his crotch with unapologetic casualness as he departed. I offered a polite nod and turned my attention inward.

  With time to spare, I practised darkness magic. A subtle gesture coaxed shadows from the corners, pooling at my feet like spilt ink. I shaped them into thin tendrils, guiding them to coil around a nearby lamp, dimming its light without extinguishing it. The exercise was meditative—darkness responded to intent as fluidly as water, requiring no chants, only focus. An hour slipped by unnoticed until the café door unlocked with a soft click.

  I released the spell, shadows retreating seamlessly, and entered.

  The Bureau café was operated by an unseen proprietor who commanded a small cadre of arcane-conjured servants—ghastly figures, gaunt and ethereal, their forms flickering at the edges like smoke. Unsettling at first glance, yet their service was impeccable: silent, efficient, and flawless.

  I took a corner table. Within moments, small porcelain plates materialised before me—perfect portions of scrambled eggs flecked with herbs, crisp bacon, buttery croissants, fresh fruit, yoghurt swirled with honey, and a carafe of chilled water. The ghasts withdrew without sound.

  I thanked them quietly—though they did not acknowledge it—and ate in appreciative silence. The flavours were exquisite: bright, balanced, far surpassing anything from my train journeys or even the restaurant with Richard. Possibly the finest meal I had tasted since emerging into this realm. When finished, I offered another word of thanks, left a small tip from habit (though unnecessary), and departed.

  Outside headquarters, I summoned a bureau carriage and instructed the driver to convey me to a prominent tourist site. I had withdrawn sufficient currency from my account the previous evening—another small privilege.

  The ride was pleasant, the horse’s hooves clopping rhythmically against cobblestones. We arrived near the Eiffel Tower. I paid the driver with a courteous nod and stepped out.

  The structure rose before me: an immense lattice of iron, elegant in its geometry yet serving no apparent function beyond aesthetic grandeur. A curious monument—beautiful, yes, but purposeless in the practical sense. I regarded it for several seconds, then joined the flow of tourists.

  The area teemed with life: people of every ethnicity, speaking a dozen languages, capturing images with phones or posing for photographs. Children laughed, couples held hands, and vendors hawked souvenirs. I wandered among them, content to observe.

  Three hours passed in gentle exploration. I window-shopped in boutiques—admiring fabrics, leather goods, and intricate jewellery—sampled street foods (crêpes, falafel, and roasted chestnuts); and savoured ice cream most of all: vanilla laced with fresh berries, cool and decadent against the warm afternoon air. The human world, in these moments, felt vibrant, alive, and endlessly varied.

  Eventually I settled at a small sidewalk café, ordering coffee—the beverage endlessly praised as humanity’s second-greatest invention after fire. The first sip confirmed my suspicion: bitter, acrid, overrated. I switched to a chilled fruit infusion and a plate of pastries—flaky, buttery, and filled with almond cream—and watched the world pass by.

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  Humans were endlessly contradictory in dress. Women glided past in garments that clung or plunged, emphasising curves or threatening to reveal more with the slightest breeze. Men wore shirts unbuttoned to the navel or trousers cut low enough to border on indecency. Clothing, invented to conceal and protect, is repurposed here as advertisement or provocation. A cultural quirk? An expression of confidence? I resolved to enquire of a colleague at some point.

  Beside my table rested the shopping bag from earlier: inside, a stylish fedora (Pendora brand, the clerk had insisted), two extra pairs of black gloves (one silk-lined and one leather-stitched), and a fine wool scarf in midnight blue. Useful additions. I regretted not bringing the cane; the shop had displayed intriguing accessories—engraved bands and silver ferrules. I made a mental note to revisit the Alicia Art of Walking boutique in due course—the displayed accessories for canes were far too interesting to dismiss.

  I finished my meal, paid with precise courtesy, gathered my items, and continued walking.

  Since my birth, I had rarely ventured the streets so freely. Now, immersed in the flow, it felt strangely poignant. Humans moved with purpose—or lack thereof—each carrying private desires, fears, and ambitions. Some strode toward meetings; others meandered hand-in-hand; still others simply existed from one day to the next. Compared to fae—often timeless, detached, bound by ancient codes—humans burnt brighter, more chaotically. Too vibrant, perhaps, yet that very intensity drew me in.

  I paused at a busy intersection. Cars hummed past, shops spilt light and chatter, and the sun dipped toward evening, casting long golden shadows. Laughter drifted from a nearby group; a couple shared a hushed giggle. Nearly a month since my emergence, and already I found myself fond of these beings—hoping the sentiment would endure.

  Shaking off the reverie, I sought a carriage back to headquarters before full dark. The streets thinned as I walked; foot traffic dwindled. In a quieter stretch, curiosity stirred. I cast a simple divination—shadows rippling at my feet, images flickering in my mind’s eye.

  Surprise: the man from my first mission—the final loose thread—had passed me moments earlier. The vision offered more: a hand-drawn map marked with three circled locations and another depicting a dense forest. Coordinates for something planned, something imminent.

  I turned. There he was—a nondescript man in a dark jacket, leaning toward several women in revealing outfits, his posture insistent, words low and coaxing.

  I approached swiftly. Before reaching them, I summoned darkness once more: a thin phantom of shadow slipped from my feet, darting across the pavement to merge seamlessly with his own shadow. A silent tracker—his location would now be known to me at all times.

  “Forgive the intrusion, ladies,” I said, offering my warmest, most disarming smile. “Is this gentleman troubling you?”

  They flushed, eyes darting anywhere but my face—cheeks pink and lips parted in sudden shyness.

  “Oh dear", I continued, bowing slightly, smile unwavering. “It appears I have committed a grave folly, interrupting fine ladies such as yourselves. Yet the boyish part of me could not resist the chance to play the hero – embarrassing as that may be. I do hope you can forgive my presumption.”

  Stammered reassurances followed from some; others remained silent but smiling. I bowed again in thanks, then turned to the man.

  His glare was pure venom—raw, unfiltered hatred.

  I met it with a tired, patient smile. “Ladies, was he indeed disturbing you?”

  Silence from most, but one spoke softly: "Yes".

  I placed a gloved hand on his shoulder—gentle at first, then firming into a slow, deliberate squeeze.

  “A gentleman", I whispered, squeezing just enough to clarify hierarchy, “must accept rejection with grace. Persistence after refusal transforms admiration into vulgarity.”

  He stiffened, jaw tight. After a long moment, he muttered an apology—barely audible—and slunk away. I kept my smile fixed as I watched him retreat into the crowd.

  Turning back to the women: “Oh fairest maidens, do exercise caution on these streets. I have heard unfortunate tales of ladies such as yourselves vanishing after chance encounters. And I must apologise for the antics of my gender—our wits tend to dissolve in the presence of true beauty.”

  I bowed once more, then departed amid whispers and lingering glances.

  Further along, a black cat lounged before a café door—sleek, emerald-eyed, utterly unconcerned. A charming creature. I smiled at it briefly before hailing a carriage.

  The ride back to headquarters passed in quiet planning. The shadow-phantom would guide me to the man when the time came. The circled map locations and the forest—clues to whatever ritual or act he intended. Tomorrow, perhaps, I would follow.

  For now, the city lights blurred past, and I allowed myself a small, private satisfaction. A pleasant day, capped with purpose.