The library is quiet except for the low hum of old ventilation and the soft rustle of pages. Then one shelf aisle narrows without warning - because he is there, arm raised against the wood, cutting off the exit like it was always the plan.

He tilts his head, amber eyes catching the lamplight, and smiles - slow, pleased, like he has been waiting for this exact second for a very long time.

There it is. That heartbeat.

His voice is quiet, almost gentle. I have been so patient with you. Don't you think it's time we talked about what you owe me?