Marron woke the morning after the celebration to sunlight streaming through her apartment window and the lingering satisfaction of a crisis survived.

The street market had celebrated late into the night—food, music, grateful vendors thanking her until her face burned with embarrassment. She'd stumbled home around midnight, exhausted and oddly emotional, her arms full of gifts from people whose businesses she'd helped save.

Now, in the quiet morning light, reality settled back in.

The decree was handled. The vendors were safe. But the problems hadn't disappeared—they'd just shifted.

Marron sat up slowly, her body protesting after days of stress and minimal sleep. Mokko was already awake, moving around the small kitchen with his usual efficiency. Lucy's jar sat on the bedside table, the slime forming lazy morning spirals.

A System notification chimed softly—not urgent, just waiting for attention.

[Quest Complete: Defend the Market]

[Results:]

50/50 vendors secured partnerships

Legal framework established

Community alliance formed

[Rewards:]

Cooking Level 52 (+2 levels) New Skill: Community Organizer (Novice) Reputation: Voice of the Voiceless Street Vendor Alliance established

[Warning: Increased visibility detected. Your activities have attracted interested parties.]

[Observer status: ACTIVE]

Marron stared at that last line. Observer status: ACTIVE. The System had mentioned this before—someone watching, taking notes, paying attention. And she knew exactly who it was.

Or...she suspected who it was.

Edmund Erwell. The academic with the wire-rimmed glasses and the leather notebook. The man who'd been appearing everywhere she went, documenting her methods, asking careful questions about her equipment.

The System didn't elaborate further. It used to, but over time, it changed into something more cryptic.

"You're thinking out loud," Mokko observed, handing her a cup of tea. "What's wrong?"

"The System says someone's actively observing me." Marron sipped the tea—some herbal blend, slightly bitter. "I think it's that professor. Edmund Erwell."

"The one who keeps showing up?"

"Yeah." Marron set down the tea. "He was at the hearing yesterday. Taking notes. Watching everything. And before that, the street market, the Guild, everywhere I've been organizing. He's not random curious. He's... focused."

"On you specifically?"

"On what I'm doing. How I'm cooking. My equipment." Marron looked at the copper pot on her counter, at the Generous Ladle hanging from its hook. "I think he suspects something."

"About the tools?"

"Maybe. Or maybe he's just an academic who studies food culture." Marron rubbed her face. "Either way, it's... unsettling."

Before Mokko could respond, there was a knock at the door.

Marron tensed. It was barely eight bells—too early for casual visits. She exchanged a glance with Mokko, who moved toward the door with the kind of casual readiness that suggested he was prepared for trouble.

But it was just a runner—a young girl in Guild messenger colors, holding an envelope.

"Delivery for Chef Louvel," the girl said, slightly breathless. "From the Academy. They said it was important."

"Thank you." Marron took the envelope and gave the girl a silver coin for her trouble. The girl bobbed a quick courtesy and left, leaving Marron staring at the cream-colored paper in her hands.

The Academy. Where Professor Edmund Erwell taught.

"That's not ominous at all," Mokko said dryly.

Marron broke the seal and pulled out a single sheet of paper—neat handwriting in dark ink, no formal letterhead.

Ms. Louvel,

Congratulations on yesterday's hearing. You handled the Merchant's Guild with admirable courage and strategic thinking.

I believe we have much to discuss—not about street vendors or bureaucratic politics, but about something more specific. Your methods. Your equipment. The remarkable consistency of your results.

I would like to meet with you. Properly. In a neutral, private setting where we can speak candidly. If you're willing, please join me for lunch three days hence at The Harvest Table—a restaurant in the mid-district, quiet enough for real conversation. Noon.

I hope you'll accept. We have much to discuss.

Respectfully,

Edmund Erwell

Professor of History, Lumeria Academy

+

Marron read it twice, her heart rate increasing with each pass.

Your equipment. The remarkable consistency of your results.

He knew. Or suspected. Or was fishing for information. Whichever it was, Edmund Erwell wanted to meet, wanted to discuss something, and the way he'd phrased it made it clear what that something was.

"What does it say?" Mokko asked.

Marron handed him the letter. Mokko read it quickly, his expression darkening. "He's asking about your tools."

"Not directly. But yes." Marron paced to the window, looking out at Lumeria's morning streets. "He's been watching for almost two weeks. He's a professor—he researches things professionally. And now he wants a private meeting to discuss my 'equipment.'"

"Are you going to meet him?"

"I don't know." Marron's hands clenched on the windowsill. "If I refuse, I look like I'm hiding something. If I go, I confirm his suspicions just by showing up."

"Maybe that's not the question," Mokko suggested. "Maybe the question is: what do you want to learn from him?"

Marron turned to look at her companion. "What do you mean?"

"He's been studying you. But you could study him too." Mokko gestured at the letter. "He's interested in your equipment. Why? What does he know about Legendary Tools? What's his actual interest—academic curiosity or something else? You could learn a lot in a private conversation."

That was... actually a good point. Marron had been so focused on protecting her tools, on avoiding discovery, that she hadn't considered turning the investigation around.

"Information gathering," Marron said slowly. "Find out what he knows, what he wants, what his angle is."

"And then decide how to respond based on what you learn," Mokko confirmed. "Better than hiding and hoping he goes away."

Lucy burbled something that might have been agreement and formed a question mark in her jar.

"Three days," Marron said, looking at the letter again. "That gives me time to prepare. To think about what I'll say, what I'll ask, how to handle this without revealing too much."

"Or you could just not go," Mokko suggested. "Ignore the invitation. See what he does next."

"And if what he does next is worse?" Marron shook her head. "No. If Edmund Erwell wants to meet, I'll meet him. On neutral ground, in public, where I can control the conversation." She folded the letter carefully. "I've been running around trying to save vendors, fighting bureaucracies, stress-cooking my way through crises. Maybe it's time I actually dealt with the observer who's been documenting everything."

"Just be careful," Mokko said. "Academics can be dangerous in their own way. They ask questions that sound innocent but aren't."

"I know." Marron tucked the letter into her bag. "But I've gotten pretty good at handling dangerous questions lately. The Merchant's Guild taught me that."

The next three days passed in a weird fog of suspended normalcy.

Marron attended her makeup classes at the Guild—Henrik pushed her through advanced techniques with his usual stern precision, and she found the routine comforting after weeks of chaos. She checked in with vendors, ensuring their partnerships were processing correctly under the new probationary requirements. She cooked, she practiced, she tried to pretend everything was fine.

But Edmund Erwell's invitation sat in her bag like a weight, impossible to ignore.

She found herself thinking about him constantly. About his wire-rimmed glasses and leather notebook. About the way he watched her—not hostile, not threatening, just... intensely focused. Like she was a research subject. A puzzle to solve.

Your equipment. The remarkable consistency of your results.

What did he actually know? What had he figured out? And what would he do with that information once he had it?

Marron didn't know. And the uncertainty gnawed at her.

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