"Don't close the door!" Bridget lunged, water streaming off her jacket and hair. The door kept moving. Eleazar Roussel's hand was on the heavy brass handle like it belonged to him. He pushed, and the door sealed with finality. "Eleazar—" Bridget's voice cracked on his name. "Stop. Please." He didn't stop. He didn't even look at her. A man in a courier uniform glanced up, then away. An elderly neighbor folding his newspaper lowered his eyes. Raindrops ran down Bridget's eyelashes and pooled on the lobby tiles. Eleazar's coat was dry. His hair was combed. The Special Unit patch on his shoulder caught the lobby light. He walked through without slowing. "You're going to hurt someone," Bridget said. The words came out steadier than she felt. Silence. "Are you deaf?" she added. The lobby hummed with the building's old heater. Someone coughed. A child across from the mailboxes looked at Bridget like he'd seen a scene from a soap. She hated the way people watched when private things turned public. A hand closed on her arm. "Bri, breathe." Nathalie's voice, high and sharp, sounded like home. Nathalie had the door cracked open to her apartment, towel in hand, hair still in a turban. She took one look at Bridget and shoved the door fully open. "Get inside before you drip on my floor," Nathalie ordered. "And tell me everything. Now." Bridget hesitated, one wet boot on the lobby rug