Corin didn't stop to check whether he was following her willingly or not. She pulled him by the arm past a row of overturned crates, over a low wall of rough stone, to a darker stretch of beach where the noise of the harbor — the shouting, the growl still audible in the distance, the sharp thud of something that must have fallen — faded into a muddled hum.
Only there, out of breath, sand having worked its way into his shoes, did Simon manage to break free of her grip and turn to face her.
He got his first good look at her only then. She wasn't tall, but she moved with something that resembled the confidence of someone who has already had to run a hundred other times in a hundred other similar situations. Honey-colored hair pulled back messily, as if she had no time for styling it, and ears slightly pointed, peeking out through loose strands — not so different, in the end, from those of the woman with the fish baskets he'd seen earlier. Except this one had just — probably — saved his life, and Simon didn't yet know whether he should feel grateful or suspicious.
He settled on suspicious. It was simpler, and right then he didn't have the energy for anything more complicated.
"Who are you," he said, not as a question but almost as an accusation. "And what the fuck was that thing in the crate?"
"No idea, and I don't want to know," she replied, unruffled. "What I do know is that whoever's smuggling undeclared beasts on pier three, when things go wrong, usually looks for a scapegoat to hand the guards before they start asking too many questions. And you, my friend, with those clothes and that 'I have absolutely no idea where I am' face, were the perfect candidate."
Simon opened his mouth to argue, then shut it. He had no counter to that logic, much as it annoyed him to admit it.
"So you got me out of there to do me a favor," he said instead, in a tone that betrayed more distrust than gratitude.
"I got you out because I'd already been watching you for a while, before that whole mess started," Corin said, and for the first time something more calculated, more direct crept into her voice. "You were walking on the beach like a drunk who'd lost his way home, dressed in stuff I've never seen in my life — that fabric, that cut, it's not from any race I know, and I've seen quite a few. And then there's that thing."
She pointed a precise finger at his pants pocket. Simon instinctively brought a hand there, feeling under his fingers the rectangular, hard, familiar shape of his phone — dead, useless, but still his.
"What do you know about what I have in my pocket," he said, and his voice came out harder than he meant it to.
"I know it has a shape I've never seen," Corin said, not breaking her stare. "And I've seen a fair number of strange things, traveling. Listen, I don't want to play the mystery game. I just pulled you out of a situation that was about to get a lot worse for you. Not for free, though. Let me see that thing, and maybe I'll even give it back, if it's nothing interesting. Call it the price of the rescue."
For an instant, Simon felt something clench in his chest that had nothing to do with the fear or confusion of that impossible night. It was something older, more tired. There it is, he thought. Even here. Even in this place that doesn't exist, the first person who comes near me wants something in return.
"No," he said, curt.
Corin raised an eyebrow. "No?"
"No," he repeated, and this time the anger came out clearer, sharper, as if he'd finally found something to plant his feet on after hours of sliding off everything else. "I'm not giving you anything. I don't know who you are, I don't know what this place is, I don't even know if I'm alive or dead or insane, but this—" he slapped a hand against his pocket "—is the only thing I have left of what I was before I ended up on this godforsaken beach, and I'm not handing it to someone I met thirty seconds ago just because she's decided I owe her something."
He braced for a harsh reaction. Instead, for a long moment, Corin studied him in silence, with an expression Simon couldn't read — not anger, not quite surprise either. Something closer to appraisal.
"Fine," she said at last, and there was a different tone in her voice now, less sharp. "No phone, or crate, or whatever it is. But don't think I'm just going to let you wander off into nothing while the harbor guards are probably already asking around if anyone's seen a stranger dressed like that. Got another offer, or would you rather head back into that mess on your own?"
Simon breathed. His chest hurt, as if he'd been running for hours even though in reality it had only been a few minutes of pure adrenaline. He looked past her shoulder, toward the distant lights of the harbor, then back at her.
"Take me somewhere no one's yelling at me," he said, more tired than aggressive now, as if the anger had used up everything he had left. "Somewhere I can sit for five minutes without someone pointing a finger at me or asking for papers I don't have, or screaming at me because I don't understand a damn thing that's happening. That's all I want, right now. Not a hero to save me, not a new best friend. Just somewhere quiet."
Corin studied him a moment longer, then something in her expression softened — not entirely, but enough for her to shrug in an almost resigned gesture.
"That I can do," she said. "Come on. And try not to look at everyone like they're about to bite you, please. At least until we get there."
They walked away from the harbor, along a path that climbed between the houses — if you could call them that, those buildings that looked stitched together from three different styles without a hint of shame, stone and wood and roofs that had nothing in common with each other. After a while, Simon stopped trying to make sense of every single thing he saw. He no longer had the capacity for it. He simply followed Corin, one step after another, letting his brain register everything without processing it — a kind of mental anesthesia that, in that moment, seemed like the only sensible thing to do.
The building she brought him to was bigger than most of the houses around it, with a thick wooden door and warm light spilling from the windows, along with a noise of voices, laughter, the clink of what might have been plates or tankards.
"The Border Inn," Corin said, as if the name should mean something to him. It didn't, but Simon didn't have the strength to say so.
Inside, the air was warmer, thick with smells mixing shamelessly — roasted meat, something sweet he didn't recognize, wood smoke. The people at the tables were a sample of everything he'd already seen on the beach and more — a huge man with grayish skin laughing too loudly, a smaller figure with what looked like little scales along her arms, and others, so many others, each different from the last in a way that nearly made Simon's head spin.
No one looked at him for more than a second. It was strange, almost disorienting in itself — after being the center of confused, hostile attention on the pier, in here he was simply one more stranger among strangers, and no one bothered to ask questions.
Corin led him to a corner table, away from the bulk of the noise, and sat down without asking permission, gesturing at the chair across from her with a curt motion. Simon dropped into the chair more than sat in it, and for the first time since he'd closed his eyes in front of that hospital door, he felt his legs finally stop shaking.
"So," Corin said, resting her elbows on the table and lacing her fingers together. "Since you're not giving me that thing, and since I did just save your ass tonight, I'd say you owe me at least a story. Who are you, and where the hell do you come from with clothes that look made by someone who's never seen a needle and thread in their life?"
Simon looked at her, then looked at the table, at the grain of the wood worn smooth by who knew how many hands before his. He didn't even know where to start — it made no sense to start with his mother, with the dead monitor, with the keys Giulia had asked for, with his boss's message. Not there, not with a stranger looking at him like a puzzle to solve for profit.
"My name's Simon," he said finally, in a flat voice. "And honestly I wouldn't even know where to start explaining where I'm from, because I don't think you've got anywhere on your map called what my home is called."
Corin didn't seem surprised by that. She was about to say something — Simon saw her lips move, the start of a question that would probably have been more direct and more uncomfortable than the previous ones — when, without any warning, on the table between them, inside his pants pocket, Simon's phone lit up.
Not a strong flash. Just a faint bluish glow, filtering through the fabric for a fraction of a second, accompanied by a hum so brief Simon nearly convinced himself he'd imagined it.
Corin stopped talking mid-sentence. Her eyes snapped to Simon's pocket with an intensity she hadn't shown all evening, and for the first time since he'd met her, he watched her go pale.
"What," she said slowly, her voice suddenly low, almost a whisper, "was that?"