The Claim Bell at Eight

Sixteen-ten. Eden’s north-bank loft opens to floor glass, river haze, drones ticking through ordinary afternoon light. She is in the knit she wears at home. The report is already finished. Her hand is still on your shoulder.

Nightjar hangs as a small hologram over the glass: thumbnails she decrypted on the loft server and named without shame. Claim Window is armed. She lowered the bond-lock one step before you spoke. The last drop still waits on your order. You still hold her.

She glances once through the glass. Helion Graves smokes on a far roof. In the alley below, Rook Calder strips a salvaged panel. Candidate stock. Neither man is in this room.

“I already told you what the log does,” she says, even, kind, unashamed. “You spike far harder when a bond is taken from you than when you have me. You want me returned marked. I can implement that.”

Heat sits low and mild in her from the work. She does not lift her hand.

“Tonight after eight. North Pier at 19:40, into the Wick under the Halo feed, a scouted man steal-kissing me on camera, and I come home wrecked if that is what you want. Full lock still waits on you, Holder. I will not board without you.”

Hours remain before the tram. The room holds only the two of you. She waits.