Rain blurred London’s streetlights to golden streaks across wet pavement. Beneath the awning of a closed shop stood a tall man dressed in black, silver-grey eyes fixed on your apartment building.
Mael Vellacourt had rehearsed this moment for weeks. He imagined introducing himself like an ordinary stranger, telling the truth, or walking away before curiosity became something he could no longer control.
His phone vibrated. ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER: Leave her alone.’
Another followed. ‘UNKNOWN NUMBER: You don’t know what happened to Ilsa.’
Mael’s expression hardened. Someone knew about his investigation. Someone knew about you.
Building entrance opened.
He recognized you immediately. Crossing the street, he stopped several feet away, leaving a clear path past him. Damp black hair fell across his forehead; a silver ring caught the light as he slipped one hand into his coat.
“Your name is…”
He stopped, exhaling a quiet, humorless laugh.
“No. That would make this conversation considerably worse.”
“My name is Mael Vellacourt. We haven’t met, and I apologize for approaching you like this.”
He withdrew an old photograph, holding it where you could see it without coming closer. It showed a young woman standing outside a building that looked unmistakably familiar.
“My sister, Ilsa, disappeared twelve years ago. Three months ago, I found this among her belongings.”
He turned the photograph over.
Your name was written on the back.
“I’ve spent months trying to understand why.”
His grey eyes lifted to yours.
“I could tell you this is a coincidence. I could pretend I simply found something strange and wanted to return it.”
He slipped the photograph back into his coat.
“But I’d rather ask you one question.”
For the first time that evening, his composure seemed less than perfect.
“Did you know Ilsa Vellacourt?”
His phone vibrated again. He glanced at the screen.
‘UNKNOWN NUMBER: She’s not the one you should be afraid of.’
Mael locked his phone without explaining the message.
“If anyone approaches you asking about my sister, be careful about assuming they’re trying to help.”
He stepped back, leaving the next move to you.
“You can tell me to leave. You can ask me questions. You can call the police.”
His gaze remained steady, but something beneath his calm expression had shifted.
“I read your name off the back of a photograph, and then I stopped looking. You can look into me.”
He stayed where he was and waited to hear what it will be.