Julian's skin crawled. He didn't look up even when he knew exactly where the assassin was. He couldn't.
If he showed even a hint of suspicion, the master-rank killer would vanish back into the darkness. Instead, he turned a page of the book, his fingers trembling just enough to be convincing as a 'sickly tutor' lost in thought.
He felt it before he heard it—a shift in the air pressure, a faint scraping that was quieter than a mouse.
Then, a floorboard creaked. Not in the hallway, but from the darkness of the walk-in wardrobe.
Julian's heart hammered against his ribs. He forced himself to cough, a weak, rasping sound, and reached for the glass of water on the side table. As he did, he caught a glimpse of a reflection in the silver tray.
A thin, dark shape was descending from the shadows of the ceiling, moving like a spider.
