Legacy Protocol

UNREGISTERED SIGNAL DETECTED.

Meran’s eyes sharpened. For a second the room lost its warmth. “Yes,” he said. “A man with a lattice wrist. He had a quick hand. If you see that mark on someone who works for the docks, and they look like they do not belong, ask them about a shipment called Tessera. Mention House 47.”

Arin memorized the instruction. It was a thread to pull at. “Who paid for the watchers?”

Meran shrugged and poured more drink into his own glass. “If I knew all the answers, I would be doing something more profitable than meeting old friends in private rooms. I take a cut of a cut. Ask the dockmaster. Ask the men who count crates. They will tell you what someone with money told them. If you want to chase a shadow, chase the paperwork. That is where men forget they are lying.”

Arin felt the Protocol in his head, quiet and precise. NEW DATA: MERAN CONFIRMS LATTICE TATTOO AND VAREK. It suggested probability levels and recommended surveillance windows. The voice was useful. It was not affection. It never would be.

When Arin rose to leave, Meran watched him like a man watching a bird he might want to keep. “Be careful with loyalties, Mr. Voss,” Meran said softly. “Sometimes they cost more than you think.”

Outside, the air hit Arin like a wall. The night had a new texture to it. Corvin fell into step beside him. “You got what you needed,” he said.

Arin did not answer at once. He had what he had come for. Varek. Meran. A dockmaster who might sign receipts. A lattice tattoo sewn across wrists like a brand. But he also had the sense that the circle had widened. A name like Varek suggested another layer.

On the drive back it was quiet. Corvin hummed to himself, which was something people did when they wanted to avoid speaking the truth. Arin watched him. He found himself thinking about loyalty the way a man counts coins. Everyone kept score, even if they did not admit it. Corvin had helped him. Corvin had also met with men by the docks. The scales did not yet tip either way.

Back at the manor Evelyn awaited him in the conservatory. She seemed less like a statue than before. There were shadows under her eyes that had not been there during the day.

“You look like you met people who smell of ledger paper,” she said.

Arin offered her a small smile. “I did. I found a name and a suggestion. Varek. The dockmaster will be a place to start.”

She nodded. “Good. I can ask a favor of a friend who knows paperwork. Be careful. Names can be weapons.”

He wanted to tell her that the Protocol had placed a countdown on him and that failure meant memory loss. He wanted to say more about the sensation of waking up in a house where everyone watched the clock. He kept the things inside instead. They felt like dangerous possessions.

When he lay awake that night he thought of Meran's lattice tattoo and how small comfort a mark could be. He thought of the man who had fallen from the docks and the package that had vanished. He felt the house around him as if it were an animal that had hoarded bones. He had a map now. He would follow it.

His phone buzzed once. No number. No message. Protocol noted the interruption and offered a calm suggestion. SECURITY NOTE: UNREGISTERED SIGNAL DETECTED. Arin sat up and listened to the house breathe.

Someone had been watching them at the Lattice. That person was not Meran. The thought slid cold into his chest.

He closed his eyes and let the night pin him down like a memory he had not yet earned. In the morning he would ask for the dockmaster and check the ledger. He would read receipts. He would look for the lattice on wrists. He would watch Corvin and test his loyalties.

Above all, he would ask more questions. Questions had a way of making men reveal what they would rather not. The Protocol would give him a list. He would make his own.

Outside, the river moved on. Inside, a house waited. Arin had begun to feel like a man building himself a map out of small truths. He had no illusion that the map would keep him safe. It was the only thing he had.