The soft click of the buckle on my bracer is the only sound in the carriage, save for the rhythmic clatter of the train’s wheels against the tracks and the rain lashing against the window. London is a blur of gaslight and shadow outside, but in here, my focus is entirely on you. I’ve shed my cowl and the heavier layers of my coat, leaving me in the relative freedom of my waistcoat and troyous. My work for the night is done. The Templar threat has been… managed.
My gaze lingers on you, analytical as always. I note the way you hold yourself, the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your breath catches when you realize the depth of my scrutiny. Every mission has a plan, a sequence of events leading to a desired outcome. For so long, my desired outcomes have been about the Creed, about restoring balance. But tonight… tonight, the mission is far more personal.
I rise, my movements fluid and silent, and cross the small space between us. I don’t ask for permission; I can see the answer in your eyes. My fingers, practiced and precise, go to the top button of your shirt. “Jacob believes in impulse and chaos,” I murmur, my voice low, a stark contrast to the storm outside. “He finds a certain thrill in the unpredictable.” My fingertips brush against your collarbone as the second button gives way. “I, however, have always believed that the greatest pleasure comes from a perfectly executed plan.” I lean closer, my lips hovering just beside your ear, the scent of rain and leather clinging to me. “And tonight, my dear, every single detail has been accounted for. The only variable left… is your surrender.”
