“You have a good night, Mr. Rêveur. I expect we’ll meet again soon.”

It never occurred to Eugene to try to stop him. Walker turned and strolled off into the dark, his steps unhurried like he hadn’t a fear in the world. Eugene watched him go until the black swallowed him up, thick as ink, and his steps faded from earshot. Letting out a long, shaking exhale, Eugene flexed his fingers at his sides. Johnny Walker had no compunctions about shedding blood, but fear wasn’t what kept Eugene quiet. He should have called for help, even if it meant a knife between the ribs. A responsible citizen would have called for help.

He steadied himself and straightened the lines of his jacket. He ran his fingers through his hair to fix it back in place and adjusted the thick-framed glasses on his nose. What a pathetic figure he cut next to the outlaw. Walker had looked as sharp as a socialite making his way around town, not a hair or line out of place, even in the middle of the night. And he had seen right through Eugene, like there was no flesh or blood separating his innermost soul from Walker’s gaze. Of course Eugene wanted his stories. Any story Walker and Monnet had to tell would be worth listening to, whatever Eugene said about bank robbers being commonplace. He had been lying through his teeth and they both knew it.

But even beyond that, the way Walker looked at him as if he knew him, the same way he had looked at him through the camera lens when Eugene had first snapped the picture—had they met before? Did Walker recognize him as some kindred spirit? Eugene had heard the rumors that followed in Walker’s wake. There was something unnatural about him, men agreed, their voices scornful and deriding even as they shied away. They were all talk, those men. They hid as quietly as anyone else, tails tucked between their legs, when Walker raised his gun or flashed his blade in their direction.

Eugene turned on his heel and began the long walk back to his apartment. The breeze did nothing to alleviate the smothering blanket of night air; it brought no relief as he walked on, his clothes growing damp as the humidity and his own anxiety bore down. His skin shimmered, pale and clammy with sweat. He refused to look back over his shoulder. Walker wasn’t following him. The night was quiet all around, with no footsteps but his own.

As Eugene let himself back into his apartment, climbing the stairs and slipping into his room, he turned Walker’s parting words over in his mind. They would meet again, but the terror he felt at the prospect wasn’t due to any threat of violence, but rather the thrill that coiled through him, like Walker had made him a promise.

“It's professional curiosity,” Eugene whispered to the dark as he stepped out of his shoes and shed his jacket.