#lodon

Guy reached out and pressed the brass doorbell.

He expected a stiff, academic scholar in a tweed suit—the typical Talamasca archetype. Instead, the lock clicked, and the heavy oak door swung open to reveal a girl who looked like she had just stepped off a clandestine stage in Camden.

She was leaning against the doorframe, wearing an oversized vintage leather jacket over a black slip dress, her hair perfectly unbothered. She didn't smile. She just looked him up and down with an expression that sat somewhere between boredom and intense scrutiny.

"You're late," she said, her voice a cool, smoky alto. "The tea's gone cold, and I was about five minutes away from locking the door and going to the pub."

Guy blinked, momentarily thrown by her presence. "I... the flight was delayed. And the taxi driver got lost near the Embankment."

"Welcome to London. The streets move when they don't want to be followed," she replied, stepping back to let him in. She didn't take his bag; she just gestured toward the hallway. "Name?"

"Guy," he said, stepping into the warmth of the flat. The interior was a strange mix of high-end modern art and stacks of ancient, yellowed books. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

She shut the door and turned, crossing her arms. "I like to hear people say it. Helps me figure out if they’re lying about who they are. You? You sound like you’re carries the weight of the world in your throat. Very dramatic."

"And you must be (Y/N)," Guy said, trying to regain his footing. "Helen told me about you. She said you were... a specialist."

(Y/N) let out a short, dry laugh—the kind that made him feel like he was the punchline of a joke he hadn't heard yet. "Is that what they’re calling 'glorified babysitters' these days? Charming."

She walked past him into a sunken living room, her movements fluid and confident. She picked up a folder from a side table and tossed it onto a velvet sofa. "Sit. We need to get the ground rules out of the way before you start your 'Mamma Mia' search party."

Guy sat on the edge of the sofa, feeling decidedly un-cool compared to her. "Look, I appreciate the Talamasca setting this up. I know the 'girlfriend' thing is for cover—"

"It’s for survival," she corrected, leaning against a bookshelf packed with files labeled in Latin. "London is a hive of Watchers, Guy. If a new face starts poking around the old ruins and the psychic hotspots, people notice. But a guy following his 'cool, moody girlfriend' through the city? That’s just another Tuesday. I’m your shield. I’m the reason the things in the dark won't bite you the second you turn a corner."

She walked over to him, leaning down so her face was inches from his. Up close, her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and slightly unsettling. "But let’s be clear: I’m not actually your girlfriend. Don't touch my records, don't eat my leftovers, and if you're going to mope about your mother, do it quietly. Sarcasm is my only love language. Understood?"

Guy stared at her, a bit breathless. "Understood. You're... very direct."

"Saves time," she shrugged, straightening up. "Helen said you’re desperate to find her. The mother. The woman who vanished into the fog." Her tone softened just a fraction, a glimmer of the 'Watcher' beneath the 'Cool Girl' exterior. "The Talamasca briefed me on the files. They think she's tied to something... old. Something they want to document."

"I don't care about their documentation," Guy said firmly, his voice rising. "I just want to find her."

(Y/N) watched him, her gaze lingering on his face as if she were reading the echoes of his emotions. She saw the raw pain there, and for the first time, the sass faded into a professional stillness.

"Then it's a good thing you got me," she said, her voice dropping to a more serious note. "I know this city's secrets. I know where the shadows hide and where the records are buried deep enough that even the Motherhouse can't find them. If she's here, I'll find the thread. But you have to do exactly what I say."

She held out a hand—not for a handshake, but as a demand for a deal.

"Deal?"

Guy looked at her hand, then up at her guarded, beautiful face. He took it. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

"Deal," he whispered.

(Y/N) smirked, the sass returning in an instant. "Good. Now, go put your bags in the spare room. You look like hell, and we’re going to a very exclusive, very haunted club at midnight. You’ll need to look at least half as good as I do if we’re going to sell the 'couple' act."

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