The man was tall and solid, near two meters, like a pine trunk braced in wind.

He wore an old shirt stretched tight as drum skin across his chest.

His trousers were dun-colored army pants stained with grease, and his shoes flared like diving fins.

His arms were as thick as thighs, and his thighs were as broad and strong as his waist; most striking, each finger wore a ring carved from a crow’s skull.

“What are we waiting for?” the man asked, impatience knocking at his ribs like hail.

“For the rain to stop.”

The short woman sat beside him, small enough to vanish in the bench’s shadow; without her voice, you’d miss her completely.

She was under five feet, thin and spare, yet her features held a composed grace, like brushstrokes settling on silk.

She wore a smoky gray wool sweater and a camel skirt, and cradled an ugly-haired white cat that stayed rigid as porcelain no matter how gently she stroked.

They sat in the platform’s most forgotten corner, listening to the rain hammer the roof like a thousand drumsticks.

“Ah!!” The man raked his hand through his rough, sharp orange buzz cut, the gesture sparking like flint. “I hate this rain!”

“Quiet.”

“Heh-heh, Canary.” The man could never sit still; his words jittered like sparrows. “Why pick that codename? Confident in your singing?”

“In a mine, you need an animal friend,” she said, voice as flat as slate.

The man nodded, understanding dawning like a lantern lit in fog.

Canary pulled a cigarette from her skirt pocket, and the match scratched alive with a short hiss, like a moth touching flame.

She narrowed her eyes and drew deep, the motion delicate and elegant, smoke curling like ink in water.

But her body was so small it felt uncanny; face, hands, and feet were miniature and fine, like a person shrunk one notch by a careful copy.

The cigarette in her hand looked huge, like a fresh stick of chalk in a schoolroom.

“You smoke the same brand as Stratford!” The man’s surprise flared again, his default expression like fireworks never quite fading. “Is it any good? What’s it taste like?”

“You’re annoying.”

“Forgive me—first time working with a woman!”

Canary kept silent, eyes fixed on the ember, hot as a tiny star sitting on her breath.

In a novel or a film, a narrator would whisper, “She’s thinking about something important,” like a ghost explaining the living.

But in the fast-sprinting nineteenth century, that old voice felt stale, like varnish peeling off a frame.

The cigarette burned down into a long ash; she tapped it with two fingers, letting flakes fall onto the cat without a glance, as if it were dust on a stone.

“Ah—what a storm—rain—fish—” the man rambled, words splashing like puddles. “Do you like fish? When I was a kid, a fishbone stuck in my throat!”

“Why didn’t it kill you?”

“Because I’m taller than most and stronger than most; swallowing them never takes effort.”

Canary turned the butt between her fingers and pinched it dead, a brief flash of satisfaction crossing her face like sun through rifted cloud.

It vanished quickly, buried again beneath her deep, recessive calm.

“It won’t stop for a while.” Canary tilted her head, listening to the rain’s drumming like war beats. “Bad for the job.”

“If Stratford were still alive…” the man said, voice swinging like a heavy gate. “That woman called us from Shattered City and died in the Dark Realm.”

“That’s why the higher-ups sent us here.”

“I haven’t worked outside in a long time.” He rolled his shoulders, and a button on his shirt couldn’t bear the sudden pull; it pinged off like a pebble flicked from a sling.

“Still with a stranger like you.”

“This run ends—”

Her thoughts lined up like cards, then a scuffle cut across the platform like torn cloth.

She turned her head; a black-haired woman was yanking a gray-white-haired woman off the train door, the struggle bright as lightning in rain.

“Oh—” The man watched gray-white and black collide, like gull and raven in a squall. “She came here too.”

“What’s interesting is the town’s Holy Maiden is also named Hedi Melvina,” Canary said, the name falling like a pebble into a deep well.

“Same name and surname?”

Canary scratched her palm with short rasping sounds, like a cricket in a box. “Possibly. Last time, Stratford invited her into the game on purpose. This time be careful—she won’t get in our way.”

“She won’t oppose us?” The man sounded disappointed, like a hunter denied a trail. “I want a taste of the ‘clever one’ Stratford spoke of!”

“She’s a Professor of Magic with modest achievements; the one to truly watch is Lilliana Clara.”

“That’s what the higher-ups warned too.”

“Luckily she doesn’t have the bandwidth for this place; Stratford’s death kicked up a lot of trouble.”

The man pulled a coin from his pocket and bent it with two fingers, the metal yielding like wet clay.

“Doesn’t matter. Whoever comes, I’ll eat whoever comes.”

“You keep your shape by eating?” Canary lifted her face and studied the bristle on his jaw, like moss on stone. “Do you… have pica?”

“Anything can go down.”

“Remarkable.”

They chatted in fits and starts, words falling like scattered seeds, then drifted to the weather.

The man complained about rain as if it were a stubborn mule, and Canary stroked the cat in silence like a priest touching a bell.

At some point, the topic slid from rain to Naghtown’s Holy Maiden, quiet as a stream edging into marsh.

“I want to see the Holy Maiden,” the man proposed, curiosity pricking like pins. “See how that Melvina differs from this Melvina.”

“As long as we don’t delay the real work.”

“According to Stratford’s calculations, Naghtown’s Dark Realm sits right above the Sacred Cathedral, two birds with one stone,” he said, hope rising like a kite.

Canary yawned, bored breath misting like steam. “The rain’s lighter, but you’re too conspicuous.”

“Being tall isn’t my fault.”

“We’ll have to wait longer.”

“Melvina already left.” The man tossed the bent coin into his mouth, the glint vanishing like a fish into deep water. “We really can’t eat her?”

“Looks like the higher-ups want to cooperate with her; that phone call last time didn’t land.”

“Blame Stratford for acting on his own.”

“Smart people are hard to handle; fools get things done.”

“I’m not a fool!”

“I didn’t mean you.”

He chewed the coin, metal clicking like teeth on stone. “Can I eat your cat?”

“That depends. Do you prefer it alive or dead?”

“As long as it’s not rotten.”

Canary leaned forward, sniffing the sour rot spreading from the cat like a fog, and murmured, “What a pity.”

She smiled and tossed the stiff cat into the trash, the motion light as flicking away a leaf.

She scanned the platform, eyes moving like a knife’s edge, then gave the man a look.

“While the crowd’s thin—”

“Nonsense—people are still here!” the man said, watching Canary dart toward Naghtown without a backward glance, her stride sharp as rain cutting clay.

“You’re really going?” he called, then changed tack like a boat in wind. “Find us an inn—I don’t want to wear soaked clothes!”

He stood, and his bulk threw a dark shadow across the platform like a passing cloud, then followed her into a rain that looked ready to drown the world.