It was still raining, soft as a nonce’s confession, slicking the streets in a way that made every light look like it was weeping. Flint lit another cigarette with hands that didn’t shake, but, then again weren’t far off it. He leaned on the railings outside the tenement, watching the door. He knew who would come through it. Knew the lie they’d wrapped themselves in so tightly it must have burned their skin.

Footsteps. Not hurried, why hurry when you think it’s all tied up, locked down, buried? Just the ordinary scuff of leather on wet concrete. Flint flicked the cigarette away and turned, stepping out to block the way.

“Just the person I was looking for. You’ve taken your time.”

A smile. That same half-smile he’d seen in the interview room, the one that didn’t reach the eyes. “I was in the boozer. Figured if you were going to hound me, I might as well get a pint or two in.”

Flint snorted. “They serve absolution on tap now, do they?”

“By the Imperial Pint, although it does depend on who’s asking and what for.”

He stepped aside, pointing up the stairs to the tenement door. “Inside. Best not give the neighbours a show, I think.”

The flat was cramped, dim, warm in the way of old places with bad insulation and damp spots in the wallpaper. Flint stood just inside the door, arms crossed. Blocking the exit. The other one sat, carefully, like someone waiting for a job interview.

Flint didn’t speak right away. Let the silence get good and heavy. Let it start pressing on the lungs. Then, when it was a long day past ripe, he said, “Funny thing about loose ends. They never stay loose, not for long.”

“What are you? The Boy Scouts?”

“It’s a rubbish knot. But you tied it.”

He saw the flicker then, just a moment. The way the eyes darted, not to the door, not to escape. To memory. Inside, to some basement of the mind where they’d stashed the truth with the broken furniture, the tools, and bloodied clothes.

“You can’t prove a thing, Copper” came the voice, quieter now.

Flint uncrossed his arms. Pulled something from his coat pocket and let it drop onto the table with a soft _clink_. Not a weapon. Nothing so dramatic. Just a key.

“Belonged to someone. You know who. She trusted you. Opens a place you said you’d never been. And inside…” He let the rest hang.

Silence again. Denial clawed at the lips but never quite escaped. Flint watched the breath leave, shoulders drop, soul crack open like old plaster. No tears. Not yet, at any rate.

“Why now?” they asked, voice barely audible.

Flint shrugged. “You were starting to believe the lies yourself. Thought it was time someone reminded you.”

A beat. Then, quietly: “So what happens now?”

Flint turned to the door. Opened it. “Now? You follow me. And you tell it all. Or I make sure you watch it fall apart one piece at a time and everybody will know. That isn’t going to go well for you.”

And for once, against all the odds, there was no argument. Just the creak of a chair, and footsteps behind him into the rain.