Trying to refocus on the conversation of the dignitaries surrounding him, Loid does keep tabs on her, though. Witnessing as she crosses the floor and effortlessly engages in conversations with diplomats and millionaires.

But something is off.

It’s not the pang of annoyance when a young gentleman asks for and is granted a dance with Yor. Nor is it the fact that she floats effortlessly along to the music in that man’s arms. It takes embarrassingly long time for the spy known as Twilight to realize that the alarm bells in his mind are ringing because of Yor’s gaze as she regards the people in the room.

A hunter.

“Excuse me,” Loid mumbles, lips stiff from the prosthetic mask.

Leaving the company behind, he winds his way closer to the dance floor and smoothly cuts in as Yor and her dance partner comes twirling by.

It feels good to have her in his arms even if he can never admit it. But it feels better, when he notices the hunting gaze zones in on someone and he can turn them and identify who: a journalist. An Ostanians journalist who has been writing some dangerously pro-Westalian sentiments.

Curious what her mission is, Loid allows her to guide their steps closer and closer to the unsuspecting journalist. Loid – Twilight – could interfere...but the journalist is not his protege, not his mission...Yor is now.

It happens in slow motion and with his back to the journalist, Loid can’t be truly certain but he’d sensed the flick of her finger more than seen it. Instead he saw her gaze. Cold. Highly intelligent. And as they waltz away again, there’s the sound of a body hitting the floor and Loid doesn’t have to see to know what it means. His eyes are locked now with Yor’s.

That’s his mistake.

Even if she doesn’t know who he is, she recognizes that he knows what she just did.

To hell with it, he thinks as Yor begins to slip from his grasp.

“Yor,” he whispers.

She’s frozen for nothing more than a split second. Then she’s gone.

Loid would never swear and anyone seeing him now would certainly not believe the colourful explicits that are running through his mind now...but he is torn because as much as he would like to, he can’t abandon his current mission until his protege is safely on his way home. At the very least it might not be long as the party seems to be coming to a close with the sudden and inexplicable death of a journalist.

---

When Loid lets himself into the shared home of him, Yor, and Anya, he finds that the latter has been put to bed already by Franky who now is enjoying a cup of coffee with Yor. A plate of store-bought cookies stand on the low table and crumbs on Franky’s stomach speak of him at least having enjoyed some. Yor’s coffee is untouched.

It’s easy enough to get Franky to leave without causing suspicion. It’s harder to act normal around Yor as she chatters mindlessly about Anya’s day and her own work at the office and Loid has to admit that he’s impressed: he never would have guessed if it wasn’t for seeing Yor at the even tonight. Yor. If that even is her name.

A new thought strikes him: what if she knows of him? What if he is simply a step in a mission to gain intelligence on WISE?

He wants to confront her now, but he also knows after years in the service as a spy, that it will get him nowhere to initiate an interrogation now when he is lacking the vital pieces of information needed to come out on top.