The boarding house is loud when Buck steps through the door.

  Not the sharp, anxious noise it sometimes carries, but the loose, rolling sound of people who have decided, at least for the evening, that the world can wait. Laughter bumps into laughter. Someone slaps a table in time.

  And then there’s the music.

  A man stands near the hearth, a traditional Irish stringed instrument tucked under his arm, fingers moving with the kind of confidence that comes from years rather than practice. The melody is old, lilting and defiant, braided with sorrow but not bowed by it. He sings in Gaeilge, voice strong, unhurried, never once straining for attention.

  As Buck enters, the man’s eyes flick toward him.

  Just a glance. A measure taken.

  The song does not falter.

  Buck pauses near the door, letting the sound wash over him. The man’s posture tells a story his music does not: balanced stance, weight centered, shoulders loose but ready. Not a laborer’s slouch. Not a performer’s flourish.

  He’s cataloging you, B.U.C.K. murmurs.

  “Fair’s fair,” Buck replies silently. “I’m doing the same.”

  The song ends to a burst of clapping and cheers. The man gives a small bow, just enough to be polite, not enough to be theatrical. Maeve is already there with a cup of ale, clapping him on the shoulder as she presses it into his hand.

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  She leans close, whispers something in his ear, and nods toward Buck.

  The man’s smile changes. Not wider. Sharper.

  He lifts the cup in Buck’s direction, then crosses the room.

  “Evenin’,” he says, voice thick with a country Irish accent. “Name’s Thomas Malone. But if ye call me that, I’ll think I’m in trouble. Tom’ll do. Or Tommy, if yer feelin’ friendly.”

  Buck offers his hand. “Buck.”

  Tommy’s grip is firm, practiced. “Aye. Maeve says you’re her business partner. Says you’re a good man.”

  He leans in slightly, lowering his voice.

  “Even if ye’ve secrets stacked higher than dockside crates.”

  Buck smiles faintly. “That obvious?”

  Tommy chuckles. “Ah sure, everyone worth knowin’ has secrets. Question is whether they’re the kind that get people killed.”

  Buck’s eyes narrow just a touch. Tommy notices and grins.

  “Relax, a chara,” he says, slipping into Gaeilge. “I’m only talkin’.”

  They sit. Someone refills Buck’s cup without asking.

  Tommy nods toward the room. “Good crowd tonight. But there’s a sour wind blowin’ through this part o’ town.”

  Buck follows his gaze. “Atlantic Guard.”

  “And the Bowery Boys,” Tommy adds. “An’ Bill the Butcher stirrin’ his lads like a pot that’s already boilin’.”

  He spits the words lightly, like they taste bad.

  “Too many of ’em lookin’ at names and faces instead o’ actions,” Tommy says. “Makes a man think twice about where he stands.”

  “And you,” Buck asks, “where do you stand.”

  Tommy smiles, but his eyes stay serious. “With the people of Five Points. Immigrants, dockhands, tradesmen. Men who remember the old country and don’t fancy bein’ told they’re less for survivin’ it.”

  He tilts his head. “Maeve says you understand that kind of community, of lookin’ out for folks.”

  Buck feels it then.

  The subtle shift. The sense of things clicking just a little easier into place.

  Alignment increasing, B.U.C.K. notes quietly.

  Buck nods. “I like to look out for people, not a big fan of bullies.”

  Tommy lifts his cup. “Good man.”

  They talk for a while longer. About music. About ships. About the kind of work that doesn’t leave clean records. Lost loves and how they each have had difficulty in staying in relationships. Tommy slips between English and Gaeilge without thinking, the cadence of both settling naturally into the room.

  When they finally stand, Tommy claps Buck on the shoulder and squeezes, his hand lingering.

  “Come have a pint with me tomorrow,” he says. “There’s a place down Mulberry Street. Irish-owned. Quiet enough to talk proper and meet a few of the lads.”

  Buck meets his eyes searching. Seeing the question beneath the invitation.

  “I’ll be there,” Buck says.

  Tommy grins warmly. “Grand so.”

  As he walks away, Buck feels the air settle again. Smoother. Less resistant.

  Interesting, B.U.C.K. murmurs.

  “Yeah,” Buck agrees. “Feels like time approves.”

  Or at least isn’t objecting, the AI replies.

  Buck watches Tommy rejoin the crowd, music starting up again, laughter rising.