5. Marin and Callen

Char woke to the soft glow of lanternlight and the distant murmur of voices beyond thin walls. His head pounded—a dull, rhythmic ache that pulsed behind his eyes like an aftershock of something immense.

The ceiling above him was wooden, dark with age and slightly warped, as if it had soaked in too much smoke and time. The walls were the same, lined with shelves cluttered with rolled parchment, half-melted candles, and small glass vials filled with unidentifiable liquids. The air was thick with the scent of old books, a faint trace of herbs, and something metallic—ink, maybe, or blood.

He was lying on a narrow cot, a rough wool blanket draped over him. His boots had been removed, set neatly beside the bed. Someone had seen to the shallow scrape on his temple, the skin tingling faintly from whatever ointment had been applied.

And sitting across from him, arms folded, gaze sharp as a knife, was Marin.

Char swallowed, forcing himself to stay calm.

Marin was exactly as he had written her—tall, lean, and composed, her dark brown skin smooth despite the perpetual exhaustion that lingered in her sharp, hawk-like eyes. Her black hair was tied back in a tight, practical braid, revealing the curve of her high cheekbones and the slight furrow between her brows. She was dressed in dark, fitted clothes—layers built for both mobility and concealment—with the faintest glint of silver where a throwing knife was tucked at her hip.

She was beautiful, in a way that was less about softness and more about precision. Like the perfect line of a blade before it struck.

And she was watching him.

"So," Marin said, breaking the silence. "You're awake."

Char forced himself upright, trying not to wince as his muscles protested. He needed to play this carefully—act normal, blend in. Freaking out in front of one of the most dangerous characters he had ever written seemed like a bad idea.

"Yeah," he croaked, his throat dry. "Guess I am."

Marin tilted her head slightly, assessing him. "You hit the ground hard back there. Thought you might've knocked something loose."

Char managed a weak smirk. "I think that happened a long time ago."

Her expression didn't change.

He cleared his throat, shifting under her gaze. "So, where exactly am I?"

Marin studied him for a moment longer, then leaned back in her chair, crossing one leg over the other. "Safe house," she said simply. "Not far from the Phoenix."

Right. That made sense. He had written about this place once—one of the many hideouts scattered across the city, used by those who couldn't afford to be found.

"Right," Char said, trying to sound casual. "Uh… thanks. For not, y'know, letting me die on the floor of a tavern."

Marin gave a faint shrug. "Callen said it would've been inconvenient."

Char huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Sounds like him."

The moment the words left his mouth, he regretted them.

Marin's gaze sharpened instantly.

"Does it?" she asked, voice cool.

Char froze.

Shit.

Before he could come up with an excuse, the door creaked open.

And in strolled Callen.

If Marin was a blade, all poised control and honed sharpness, then Callen was the flick of a coin mid-air—always moving, always unpredictable.

He was dressed in his usual effortless way, dark clothes worn with a careless charm, his long coat slung over one shoulder like he couldn't be bothered to actually wear it. A few stray strands of his dark blond hair fell over his forehead, framing a face that was far too used to smirking.

And, of course, he was smirking now.

"Well, look who's up," Callen drawled, shutting the door behind him with a casual flick of his boot. "For a second there, I thought Marin might've actually killed you by accident."

Marin sighed. "Wouldn't have been an accident."

Callen shot her a lazy grin before turning his attention back to Char. His blue-green eyes flicked over him, sharp with curiosity. "So, stranger," he mused, "mind telling us who the hell you are?"

Char's heart pounded.

He had written everything about Callen. His habits, his tells, the way he used humor as a mask, the way he always seemed a step ahead even when he wasn't. Char knew exactly how to read him.

And Callen?

Callen was reading him right back.