For a heartbeat that stretched into an eternity, Foster's world was a jar filled with pure, undiluted panic.
Every instinct screamed at him to run, to shatter the window and leap into the traffic below.
But the mask of Andrew Garfield, forged in desperation and maintained through sheer will, held.
A slightly reluctant, professionally polite smile touched his lips. "Likewise, Captain Hanson." he said, his voice miraculously steady.
He reached out and took Hanson's hand. The grip was firm, cool, and brief. It felt less like a greeting and more like a calibration.
"Shall we discuss your requirements in my office?" Andrew continued, gesturing towards the corridor.
He instructed the secretary, "Ms. Benita, two coffees, please. Black." He needed the ritual, the normalcy of it, to ground himself.
He led the way, his back was prickling with the sensation of Hanson's gaze drilling between his shoulder blades.
_Why is he here? Today? Did he follow me?_
The questions were a frantic drumbeat in his skull.
_Does he know? Is this one of his unspoken tests? A way to see how deep the corruption in his own station runs?_
He held the door to his small, impersonal office open, gesturing for Hanson to enter first.
The Captain moved past him, his eyes doing a quick, sweeping inventory of the room—the standard-issue desk, the client chairs, the bland landscape print on the wall.
He sat without being asked, his posture making the simple chair look like a throne.
Foster rounded the desk and sat opposite him, the solid wood suddenly felt like a flimsy barricade. Just as he did, Ms. Benita arrived with the coffee.
The two men sat in silence until she left, the click of the door echoing like a gunshot.
Hanson took a sip of his black coffee, his expression unchanging.
"The Granite Point Library," he began, without preamble. "I understand your firm is handling the redevelopment proposal."
Foster's mind, which had been braced for an accusation about his dual identity, stuttered. "That's... correct."
He said carefully. "Though the proposal has yet to be formally submitted to the planning committee."
"Mm." Hanson set his cup down precisely on a coaster.
"The library falls within my precinct's jurisdiction. A building of that size, facing demolition, presents logistical challenges. Traffic control, public safety during the tear-down, potential squatter displacement beforehand."
His granite eyes locked onto Foster's. "I prefer to be apprised of significant changes in my district. Before they become problems."
The explanation was perfectly logical. Boring, even. A diligent public servant doing his due diligence.
A wave of cautious, dizzying relief washed over Foster.
_He doesn't know. He doesn't recognize me._
He allowed himself to truly look at Hanson, at the lines around his eyes, the slight grey at his temples.
_He's just a man getting old, concerned about his patch. And it's not as if I'm doing anything illegal. This is for Ortego._
"The project is still in the preliminary stages." Andrew said, his confidence returning.
He slipped into the consultant's patter, outlining the 'structural issues' and the proposed timeline, emphasizing the public safety angle.
Hanson listened, his gaze never wavering, occasionally giving a curt nod.
They came to an agreement that the UIAF would keep the precinct informed of any developments. Another handshake was exchanged at the office door, this one feeling slightly less like a death sentence.
Foster saw him out, standing at the entrance of the firm until the Captain's imposing figure disappeared around a corner. He walked back to his office on legs that felt like rubber, closed the door, and sank into his chair.
He picked up a fountain pen from his desk, fumbling with it, his fingers trembling slightly. The relief was now being crowded out by a new, insidious doubt.
_Withersby._
The thought was a cold spike. He had just been strategizing how to dismantle the man's historical pet project. And now, hours later, his police captain—a man of law and order—shows up asking about it?
The timing was off. It was too fast. The proposal wasn't even submitted. There was no reason for Hanson to be involved yet.
Firstly, he reasoned.
_It's not long ago that Robert and I drafted the proposal. It was unsure for anything to be guaranteed without having the said proposal submitted to the city planning committee. It was unnecessary for Withersby to be this extravagant for something he wasn't certain of._
Secondly, his mind countered.
_Considering his double status... who pulled far more important strings from behind the doors... he wouldn't waste his time with a mere captain._
But what if Hanson wasn't "a mere captain" in this context? What if he was a piece on Withersby's board?
The Captain's sudden, specific interest felt like a subtle warning he'd been too slow to pick up on.
Was his life on a tight rope with his captain being on the other end acting as a messenger?
Was Hanson the one who could cause his demise if the library was tampered with?
He thought of the journal, the H.A.M., the "authorities."
This wasn't just about corruption, it was about a hidden world governing the visible one. And if Captain Hart Hanson, the paragon of cold, procedural justice, was part of that machine...
Foster stared at his reflection in the dark screen of his data-slate, the face of Andrew Garfield looking back, pale and strained.
He had questioned the integrity of politicians, of shadowy clubs, of the city's very fabric. But he had always held the police, his badge, his captain, as a last bastion of a fractured reality.
Now, that too was in question. Could the man who enforced law and order by day be playing a very different, much darker game by afternoon?
The pen stilled in his hand. The walls of his carefully constructed lives were not just closing in, they were revealing themselves to be made of the same shifting, treacherous sand.