Page 14 of Infernal Affairs

The armchair is big.

Bigger than any human would need.

There are no photos. No keepsakes. Not even a coat rack, just a single peg for his long, dark overcoat.

He follows my gaze and shrugs.

“I don’t hang things on walls.”

He says it like that explains everything.

Maybe it does.

He leads me to the kitchen nook, which is a loose term for a counter, a battered espresso machine, and a refrigerator so clean I suspect he’s never used it for anything but cream and the occasional six-pack.

Enoch gestures toward the end of the counter.

“Mind the knife.”

Sure enough, there’s a wicked little knife with a bone handle. Next to it sits a chipped coffee mug with the words I Kissed a Ghoul and All I Got Was This Mug faded from a hundred dishwasher cycles.

I couldn’t have planned it better. I want to blurt something clever, but instead I crack open the pastry box, arranging the contents so the best ones are on top. “Clover and I spent the afternoon fighting over which ones you’d like most,” I say, though it’s not the truth. I spent the afternoon obsessing over which ones I like most, then trying to guess what that says about me.

He inspects the contents, all focus.

“They’re warm,” he muses, approving. “How did you⁠—”

“There are tricks,” I say. “Microwave on half power, lined with a damp paper towel. But that’s a trade secret, so you owe me.”

He smiles. I mean, really smiles. Not the therapist’s half-smirk, but a dawning amusement that makes me wish I did this sort of thing every night. He slides the box closer, selects the darkest, sugariest one, and waits for me to join. I think he’s testing whether I’ll reach for the same one. I don’t. I pick the one with apricot glaze, because it’s messy and I want to see what he does when I get sticky sugar on my lips.

He’s still looking at me—not the way people look when they want something, but like he’s searching for a puzzle piece. I start to feel self-conscious, so I grab his mug and take a sniff. “Is this safe?”

He fills it with coffee before I can protest, and pours some into a glass for himself. It’s black and smells like cedar, with a richer undertone underneath.

He leans against the counter, bracing himself with one hand, and takes a measured bite. “Best part of my day,” he says, not joking.

“Flattery,” I accuse, but it comes out breathless. I chew slowly, consider something, then ask: “Is it quieter here, at night?”

He glances past me, out the tall windows toward the sea. There’s a long pause. “I thought it would be. At first, I thought the whole point was to get away from everything, but the wind up here never stops. It’s just a different kind of noise.”

That makes sense, more than I want to admit. I know about the illusion of quiet, how silence can be just a hiding place for old anxieties. “I would’ve thought it was peaceful,” I say, then softer, “Guess not.”

He puts down his bun, wipes his hands meticulously, and considers me again. “You ever been lonely?” he asks—not like he expects an answer, but he looks up, waiting for one.

“I work in a bakery,” I say, which is supposed to be funny, but it comes out small. “You can be surrounded by people all day and never have an actual conversation.” I mean it as a joke. It just sits there.

He nods like he understands. Maybe he does.

The pause pulls longer, enough that I lose my nerve and scan the room again. “So, uh, how do you end up living in a lighthouse? Was it a job listing, or is there a secret monster realtor?”

“A bit of both. Zadok found it. Said if I was going to be mopey, I should do it somewhere dramatic.”

I laugh. “That sounds exactly like Zadok.”

“It does, doesn’t it?” Something flickers across his face, fond and faintly exasperated. “My brother has never met a situation he couldn't improve through excessive theatrics.”

“Does he visit?”