Chapter Text
The platform is empty when I step off the train.
But I can feel the ground shift behind me — a ripple in the shadow that never leaves.
I travel alone.
But I’m never really alone.
Their presence flickers just behind me — silent, watchful, embedded in the edges of my shadow. I don’t need to glance back to know they’re with me. I feel them the way I feel the air shift before a storm. Constant. Steady. Mine.
The wheels of my suitcase make no sound against the pavement. Not because it’s silent — but because I’ve trained myself to listen past it. To the faint click of a security camera adjusting its lens. The thud of a bird taking off from a distant rooftop. The synthetic buzz of a powerline strung overhead, its pulse threading through the air like a nerve.
Musutafu’s early morning air carries the thin scent of dew and asphalt, mingled with the sterile tang of reinforced glass. U.A. is up ahead, just beyond the trees. I can smell the metal — sharp, clean. The chemical scent of sterilization. A perimeter that prides itself on being impenetrable.
My pace is even. Measured. The gray fur of my tail sways once with each step, barely brushing the back of my thighs. My ears flick once — left, then forward — catching the low growl of a garbage truck turning a distant corner. Not a threat. Just noise.
My uniform fits like second skin — black tactical bodysuit, molded for function, layered utility belt and low-profile holsters. The weight is familiar. Comforting. Nothing decorative. Nothing unnecessary.
No cape. No symbol.
Those were for heroes on posters — the kind kids were taught to believe in.
I never had one growing up. No hand reaching down, no voice saying you’re safe now.
So I became something else.
A pro hero who guards from the shadows —
watching the edges, keeping the quiet spaces secure.
Not to be seen.
But to see what’s coming before anyone else does.
I slow at the corner, just long enough to glance at my phone.
Nezu’s message is still open — the same one I’ve already read more times than I’ll admit.
Welcome to U.A., Kuromori-san.
Your provisional schedule has been uploaded.
Chief of Security status will be finalized upon in-person verification.
We’ll meet at the main gate.
Clean. Direct. Nothing wasted. I like that.
There’s comfort in clarity. A defined role. Clear expectations.
This is a job — not a calling. I’ve never needed it to be more than that.
I show up, I do the work, and I do it well.
The rest of me — the off-duty version, the parts that feel — they stay behind when I clock in.
Out here, there’s no room for softness. No space for second-guessing.
I’m here to enforce the boundary, not cross it.
Patrol the grounds. Monitor behavior. Oversee security protocols. Observe everything. Intervene only when necessary.
A promotion, on paper. A shift in territory.
I’m not at the front anymore — I’m on the edge.
This isn’t a battlefield.
It’s a perimeter. A fortress.
And now, with All Might’s retirement and the dorm system taking shape—
they need someone watching from the shadows.
Someone with experience. Someone who knows how to guard ground this large without being seen.
The main gates come into view — high, geometric, outlined in cobalt and violet steel. The U.A. crest gleams at the top in polished gold, catching the morning sun like a warning flare.
The outer wall stretches wide on either side — pale yellow, muted red, soft green. Decorative pastels hiding reinforced plating. Not meant to look like a fortress.
But I can smell the sensors buried beneath the surface. Hear the faint click of a camera re-centering above the arch.
The front may be clean and open.
But every line is designed to keep threats out — or trap them in.
A fortress, for sure.
Pristine. Efficient.
Still a cage.
The moment I approach the arch, a sharp alarm tone blares through the air, just once. Red light floods the gate’s sensor columns, racing from top to bottom.
A heavy mechanical clunk echoes beneath my feet.
Reinforced Metal shutters slam down across the threshold, sealing off the path ahead. The gate locks tight. Access denied.
I stop. Not startled. Not insulted.
Efficient response time. Good perimeter discipline.
I approve.
No ID. No clearance. Unknown variable approaching a high-security zone — they reacted exactly as they should.
I wait, silent, as the system hums. Somewhere behind the panels, it’s cross-referencing facial data and biometric scans against an incomplete registry.
Thirty seconds pass. Then —
The lights flash green. The shutters withdraw with a smooth hydraulic hiss.
Nezu is standing on the other side.
“Ah!” he says brightly, arms clasped behind his back. “I should have expected that.”
He stands just beyond the gate, dressed in a crisp navy vest and red tie, small but unmistakably in charge.
Despite his size, he radiates control.
“My apologies, Kuromori-san. The system doesn’t recognize you yet — no credentials means you were flagged as a potential intruder.”
He steps forward and produces a sleek black card — unmarked except for the faint emboss of U.A.’s crest and a narrow embedded chip running through its core — extending it toward me like a formal offering.
“Your Chief of Security ID,” he explains. “Programmed for full access. Perimeter zones, faculty corridors, internal scans. You’ll be synced into the system by tonight.”
I accept the card with both hands, a quiet nod of thanks.
It’s slim, light, and quiet in the hand — the kind of authority that doesn’t need to announce itself.
I slide it into the wrist pouch of my suit, then bow — just slightly. Controlled.
“Understood.”
Nezu inclines his head, expression still warm but edged with sharp awareness.
“Then let’s get you inside,” he says. “U.A. has been waiting.”
He turns without waiting for a response. Not dismissive — just confident I’ll follow.
He’s right. I do.
His pace is brisk, but unhurried — the walk of someone who knows every angle of the terrain and trusts the system to handle the rest.
“You had no trouble finding the place, I hope?” he asks without looking back. His tone is light, conversational, but not idle. Everything about him feels purposeful.
“No.”
I let the silence stretch for just a moment — not out of hesitation, but control.
“Train was early.”
“Ah, good,” he replies with a small nod. “Punctuality is a virtue I value highly.”
There’s a flicker of approval in his voice — subtle, but real. Not the kind offered out of politeness. The kind given by someone who has already done their homework on me.
We pass beneath the inner gate, and the texture of the ground changes — from rough public pavement to polished stone laid in clean, geometric patterns.
The courtyard opens wide around us, framed in low hedges and a line of early-autumn trees. Decorative. Symmetrical. Soft on the surface.
But the air is too still.
Not quiet — still.
Beneath that surface calm, I can feel it humming. Subtle, layered. Surveillance systems buried just below the concrete. Energy lines thrumming through the path like distant heartbeats. Thermal tracking. Motion sensors. Passive quirk suppressors.
A fortress pretending to be a campus.
Most people wouldn’t notice.
But I do.
And so do they.
The awareness behind me sharpens — a low ripple at the edge of thought. I don’t need to speak. Don’t need to look. The pack feels it too. They’re alert. Watching. Waiting.
“Before we begin the tour,” I say, scanning the rooftop line for movement, “I’d like to deploy my team. A preliminary sweep.”
Nezu doesn’t slow. Doesn’t question.
“Of course,” he says simply. “You’re free to begin whenever you like.”
I give no signal. No gesture.
But my shadow obeys.
It lengthens behind me, spreading flat and wide across the courtyard stone like a liquid mirror. The edges ripple once — unnaturally — and then break.
They come quietly.
First one. Then four. Then nine.
Twenty wolves — dark, lean, and silent — rise from the shifting dark. For half a breath, they hold.
Sleek bodies made of smoke and silence, radiating a cold, coiled intelligence. Each one distinct in gait and posture, their eyes faintly glowing with focus.
Then they move.
Fluid. Precise. Coordinated without a sound.
They don’t bark.
They don’t growl.
They don’t need to.
Two scale the building with barely a whisper of claws. Four melt into the trees at opposite angles. Three take to the side paths, scanning blind corners and elevated entryways. One disappears beneath a maintenance stairwell and vanishes.
Nezu’s eyes follow them — or as many as he can. He doesn’t look surprised. Just curious. Focused.
“They don’t behave like summons,” he says after a long moment. “No delay. No instruction. Just… instinct.”
“They’re not your typical summons,” I reply without looking at him.
“They’re mine.”
I can feel his gaze shift toward me — not invasive, not suspicious. Just… measuring.
“Integrated,” he murmurs. “Autonomous. Scent-driven, perhaps?”
“Situational,” I say. “They adapt to terrain. Threat profiles. Movement patterns. Their range will stabilize once they’ve mapped the perimeter.”
I keep my tone neutral. This isn’t a briefing. It’s a courtesy.
“How extraordinary,” he says again, more to himself than to me.
I see the shift in his posture from the corner of my eye — fascination, not fear.
My tail shifts behind me, low and steady. My ears tilt right — a soft scrape in the treeline. Then stillness.
I don’t look.
I don’t have to.
They’re already in position — covering angles, tracking movement, reading the terrain as if it’s already theirs.
I keep walking, my steps even, unhurried. As if I haven’t just unleashed a perimeter sweep of living shadows across the school.
New territory. New variables.
But the rules are the same.
Watch.
Map.
Hold the edge.
I was raised to survive the unknown.
Now I protect it.
The front doors of U.A. rise ahead — polished, tall, and waiting.
Twin panes of reinforced glass framed in brushed steel, with tinted privacy layers so subtle they reflect the sky without revealing the world inside. The gold trim around the handles catches the light like a warning. No scratches. No fingerprints. Someone cleaned them recently. Likely that morning.
Nezu doesn’t pause. A quiet hiss precedes the soft disengage of locks, and the doors part like a vault opening on command.
I follow.
The moment I step inside, the light changes.
Brighter — but diffused. Clean but cold.
The warmth of the sun cuts off at the threshold, replaced by artificial clarity. Pale floors. Soft-toned walls. High ceilings lined with discreet motion sensors, built flush into the corners. The scent shifts too — less metal now, more lacquered wood, synthetic polish, the sterile tang of electromagnetic shielding baked into the walls.
The air is still.
Conditioned. Watched.
Alive, but resting.
The hallway stretches forward — wide and quiet, lined with sealed classroom doors and wall-length windows locked behind security film. A school on paper. A stronghold in truth.
It feels like walking into the chest of a sleeping beast.
Silent. Contained. Waiting for its pulse to rise.
Nezu moves ahead without speaking, his small frame a sharp contrast to the size of the space around him. But he fits here. Not as an intruder — as its brainstem. The place bends around his movements. Adapts to him.
I track him with my peripheral vision, but I’m reading the building.
The floor texture changes slightly near a fire door — low-grip strip for traction. A blind spot in the upper-right surveillance angle near the second skylight. Echo patterns confirm a ventilation shaft above the main junction that could conceal motion if the timing was right.
I catalog it all.
Field-of-vision gaps.
Overlapping traffic zones.
Three-second blind sweep on the hallway monitors.
My boots make no sound against the tile. Not because they’re silent — but because I know how to walk between the noise.
One of my wolves slips past a high corridor sensor ahead, silent as smoke. Just a flicker of movement in the reflective glass, gone before anyone would notice.
Nezu doesn’t look back. But I know he knows.
And I know he’s letting me see how much the school is willing to show — and what it wants to hide.
Nezu leads me down a polished hallway — brighter than the others, but narrower. No overhead monitors here. Just recessed lighting and sleek, high-gloss tile that picks up shadows like fingerprints.
Ahead, a set of wide double doors stands open.
Voices drift from the room beyond — low and casual. Not careless, but at ease. Professionals speaking in off-duty cadence.
The moment tightens.
Not my pace. Not my expression. But internally — a shift, subtle as a breath held in the chest.
I’ve read the files.
The Hero Public Safety Commission didn’t waste time. My position was finalized the day after Kamino — Nezu had the files out the same day, encrypted and timestamped.
U.A. staff dossiers: primary quirks, behavioral profiles, combat footage where applicable. They weren’t redacted. He didn’t hold anything back.
Faces matched names. Names matched quirks. No surprises.
Still — paper isn’t scent. Footage isn’t instinct. And I don’t trust either until they pass my own filters.
We reach the door.
I let the moment settle. Just one breath. Then I enter.
The lounge is spacious, sunlit, designed for comfort but not luxury — paneled in muted wood and polished steel. Windows stretch across the far wall, and a long table anchors the space between sectional seating and high-backed chairs. The teachers are already gathered — casual in posture, but alert beneath it.
They were waiting.
Every set of eyes turns toward me. Some direct. Some cautious. None surprised.
I step forward — composed. Measured.
And I take them in.
Aizawa Shouta — Eraserhead.
Furthest from the door. Back to the wall. One leg bent, arms crossed under a greyish-white capture weapon coiled loosely around his shoulders. His eyes — narrow, sleep-deprived, watching — track me without blinking. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But his presence is anchored like a nail in concrete.
Underground hero. Quirk: Erasure. Known for bluntness. Low tolerance for bullshit.
I respect that.
Yamada Hizashi — Present Mic.
Beside him, posture slouched. Blond hair flared wild, orange-tinted shades hiding most of his expression — but not his grin. There’s noise in him even when he’s still. Energy curled tight in the corners. His body angles instinctively toward Aizawa, like muscle memory.
Quirk: Voice. High-frequency manipulation. Social. Unpredictable. Loyal.
He smells like citrus and static.
Kayama Nemuri — Midnight.
Standing behind the table, one hand resting on its edge. Her stance is relaxed — but her eyes are sharp under the glamour. She’s already analyzing me. Calculating something behind the easy smile.
Quirk: Somnambulist. Pheromone-based sleep gas. Public image: seduction and show. Private record: tactical precision.
She wears the costume. She is not ruled by it.
Ishiyama Ken — Cementoss.
Seated near the wall. Broad-shouldered, arms folded loosely in front of him. Unmoving, unbothered, but fully present.
Quirk: Cement manipulation. Defensive foundation. Steady judgment.
Smells like dust and clean earth.
Ectoplasm — hero alias only.
Near the window, coat fastened high. Half in sunlight, half in shade. His frame is angular, posture rigid. Every motion tight and deliberate, like someone who only moves when there’s purpose.
Quirk: Cloning. Rapid deployment. Strategic mindset.
His gaze reads more like sonar than sight.
Snipe — hero alias.
Leaning against the window frame, arms crossed, hat low over his eyes. No unnecessary movement. But his body’s angled just slightly toward the door. Watching. Measuring.
Quirk: Homing bullets. Tactical accuracy. Long-range combat.
Gunpowder and patience.
These were the ones waiting for me.
No last-minute additions. No surprises.
The rest would surface in time — hallway meetings, staff briefings, field drills.
But these were the ones who had already moved into the teachers’ dorms.
Nezu steps in behind me, still bright-voiced but not careless.
“Everyone, this is Kuromori Reina — our new Chief of Security. She’ll be overseeing the dorm perimeter, internal grounds, and evacuation protocols moving forward.”
All eyes stay on me.
I bow — just slightly. Measured. Controlled.
“Good morning,” I say. My voice is calm. Even. “It’s an honor to be here.”
As I rise, I meet each gaze in turn. Direct. Focused. Never lingering too long. Not challenging. Not deferential.
Just present.
Silence stretches for half a second longer than it needs to. Then—
“Yo!”
Present Mic throws up a hand, two fingers lifted in greeting. His voice is loud even when it’s casual. The grin that follows is easy, unfiltered, real.
His posture stays relaxed, but his body shifts slightly — just enough to cover Eraserhead’s left side. Reflexive. Protective.
I catalog it. Friendly. Loyal. A shield in plain sight.
Across the table, Midnight tilts her head. Not mockingly — thoughtfully. The hum that slips from her throat is soft, but deliberate. She’s not watching me like someone who’s curious. She’s watching me like someone who plans to remember.
Her eyes skim my stance, my weight distribution, the exact place where my tail falls. Not judging. Scanning.
Calculated. Controlled.
The reputation doesn’t fool me — the performance is camouflage. She knows exactly what she’s doing.
Near the far wall, Snipe nods once. Short. Minimal. Efficient.
The kind of greeting that doesn’t waste time on pleasantries, but still marks respect.
On the opposite end of the table, Cementoss gives a slow incline of the head. Quiet. Present. Unshaken.
His awareness isn’t focused like a beam — it’s structural. Weight-bearing. Foundational. His kind holds the room up when the rest starts to tilt.
By the windows, Ectoplasm stands like a shadow carved into the wall. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t need to.
His attention is absolute — split-second reading of angles, spacing, reflex capacity. Tactical mind. No emotion, no impression. Just silent, total assessment.
And then there’s him.
Eraserhead.
Still seated. Back to the wall. He hasn’t moved since I walked in.
His eyes — narrow, tired, dry — track me like I’m part of the floor plan.
Not blinking. Not breathing hard.
Just watching.
Most mistake that kind of stillness for fatigue.
But I know better.
It’s weight management. It’s pressure containment.
It’s the kind of quiet that only comes from experience — from knowing you don’t have to make the first move, because you’re already in the best position to end things.
The most dangerous person in the room is the one who doesn’t move.
He’s reading me. Every breath. Every glance. Every calculation I haven’t said aloud.
And I let him.
Let him guess. Let him think I’m all surface and credentials.
He’ll learn the rest when it matters.
I shift my attention back to the others. Professional. Clean. Measured.
But my eyes return to him, just for a breath longer than necessary.
His expression hasn’t changed. But I can read the tension in it. The refusal to be impressed. The readiness beneath the quiet.
And something stirs beneath the surface of my own restraint — not threat. Not annoyance.
Something closer to interest.
The kind I don’t show on duty. The kind I don’t bring to work. The kind I’m already locking away — slowly, deliberately — even as the thought settles in the back of my mind:
If I have to stay here — if this place becomes mine to guard, to know — then someone like him might make the time pass faster.
A sharp mind. A sharper tongue. No patience for posturing, but just enough ego to rise to bait.
He’s going to be fun to tease.
I let the moment breathe.
One inhale. One exhale.
Then I speak.
“My team is already deployed across the perimeter,” I say evenly, addressing the room. “They’re running silent surveillance patterns. Priority is discretion and response.”
Most of the faces in front of me don’t shift.
But one voice cuts through the quiet.
Flat. Low. Deceptively calm.
“You sent out a team without seeing the ground yourself?”
Eraserhead.
Of course it’s him.
I turn my head slightly — just enough to meet his eyes without posturing. He remains locked in place — deliberate, unreadable, but I feel the shift in attention. The way the whole room leans toward the weight of that question, even if their bodies don’t follow.
He’s not just asking. He’s testing.
I don’t flinch. Don’t blink.
“They specialize in early recon,” I reply. “They know how to stay unnoticed.”
Simple. Clean. Intentionally vague.
I’m not giving him more than he asks for.
He narrows his gaze — not with anger, but with precision. A microscope turning a little closer to the slide. Looking for flaws. Watching for cracks.
He’s not trying to trip me up. He’s trying to see if I even register pressure.
Good.
That’s the kind of man who respects structure — not status. Not talk.
My tail flicks once behind me — a slow, quiet motion. My left ear twitches toward him.
I keep my eyes level and let my voice shift. Just a shade lower. Calmer. Composed.
But there’s an edge now — subtle, unmistakable.
A tilt of my head.
A pause that’s almost too deliberate.
And then —
A smirk.
Slow. Measured. Barely there.
The kind that doesn’t show teeth. Just amusement.
“What’s the matter?”
“You don’t believe me?”
I say it like it’s harmless.
Like it’s nothing.
Like I’m not watching every micro-shift in the lines around his mouth.
No response.
Just silence. Stillness. Study.
I lean in — not physically, just tonally — and let the next line drop, low and soft:
“Would you like to make sure for yourself?”
A challenge in velvet.
Not a threat.
An invitation.
He doesn’t react.
Not a blink. Not a twitch. Not a breath out of place.
That stoic control isn’t passive — it’s tactical.
It’s not that he’s calm.
It’s that he chooses silence like a weapon.
There’s nothing performative about it. No ego. No posture.
Just a steady refusal to give anything away unless it matters.
And that’s what makes me curious.
Not his challenge. Not his skepticism.
The discipline. The restraint. The fact that he’s clearly not afraid of me — but still doesn’t trust me.
He’s watching for deviation — waiting to see if I’ll flinch, fold, or break rank when the tension spikes. He’s testing my limits.
So maybe I’ll test him instead.
Just enough to watch what he does with it.
Just enough to see what cracks and what doesn’t.
I don’t do it to provoke.
Not exactly.
But I can already tell — he bends slow.
And I want to see the moment it happens.
Outwardly, I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
But inside? The grin was already stretching.
Cool on the outside. Bright underneath. Just enough to enjoy the game.
The silence cracked — not with words, but a low whistle.
“Oho!”
Present Mic leaned back against the wall, grin spreading like a spotlight warming to full brightness.
“Shouta, you attracting attention again?”
His tone was playful, but not soft — sharp at the edges.
He was watching the exchange with full awareness. No misunderstanding. No deflection.
Just amusement.
His eyes flicked between me and Eraserhead like he was waiting for a punchline.
Across from him, Midnight crossed her arms with elegant ease, weight settling into one hip.
“Careful, Kuromori,” she said, smirking.
“That one doesn’t flirt back.”
Her voice was velvet — warm at the edges, but laced with something sly.
I caught the scent of curiosity off her.
Sharp. Sweet. Focused.
She was reading me again — maybe more closely this time.
Cementoss gave a low chuckle — not loud, not mocking. Just the quiet sound of someone who’d seen enough dynamics unfold across a dozen lounges and wasn’t surprised by this one.
By the windows, Ectoplasm shook his head once — a small, clipped motion. Somewhere between amused and resigned. No verbal comment. Just the ghost of one.
Snipe muttered something under his breath — a rusted gravel-tone too low to catch in full.
But I heard one word.
“Bold.”
He didn’t say it like a complaint.
Across from me, Eraserhead finally blinked.
Slow. Measured.
No change in posture. No shift in tone.
But I caught it — the tension just barely leaving the line of his jaw.
A recalibration. Not retreat.
He wasn’t rattled.
He was reassessing.
And then—
“Kuromori-san comes with extensive field experience,” Nezu chimed in, bright and sudden.
“I have no doubt she’ll prove her capabilities in short order.”
Just like that, the tension shifted.
Redirected. Smoothed over.
But not forgotten.
Nezu steps forward again, holding a neatly folded map in both hands — smooth cardstock, reinforced edges, segmented by color-coded zones.
“Here,” he says, offering it up. “A full layout of U.A.’s internal and external security regions. All active monitoring lines are marked — some of which your team has likely already discovered.”
I accept it with a nod. The paper is thick, precise. Like everything else here, it’s built to last.
I tuck the map under my arm, my other hand still gripping the handle of my suitcase.
Before I can speak, Nezu glances down at the case.
“Ah, yes,” he says, tone light. “You won’t want to carry that around the grounds.”
He gestures toward a nearby corner of the lounge — low, shadowed, unoccupied.
“You may leave it here for now.”
“When you finish your sweep,” he adds, “meet me in my office. We’ll go over placement and housing.”
I nod once more.
Efficient. Clear.
Without a word, I wheel the suitcase to the corner and turn to leave — already resetting my internal grid for terrain, cover angles, live scent trails.
But I don’t make it to the door.
“Hey, hold up!”
Present Mic pops up behind me like a speaker turned to max volume — all presence, no warning. That same wide grin, equal parts performer and pest.
“How about a little faculty field trip?”
He slaps a hand down on Eraserhead’s shoulder, loud enough to draw a few looks.
“Come on, people — don’t you wanna meet the new security chief’s mysterious team?”
A quiet laugh to my right — silk-thin, unmistakably amused.
Midnight is already approaching, heels silent on the tile.
Before I can react, she loops a soft arm through mine like we’ve known each other for years.
“Don’t mind Hizashi — he just hates being left out,” she says, smiling. “But I admit, I’d like to see them in action too.”
A playful curve lifts her mouth.
She leans in like she’s sharing a scandal.
“Between you and me? About time we got another woman in the mix — this place has been one long sausage parade.”
I glance at her, just briefly. Her scent is warm and playful — not invasive, not false.
The kind of presence I don’t usually mind.
The kind that off-the-clock me might actually get along with.
I don’t pull away.
Behind us, Snipe tips his hat once in silent decline.
Cementoss and Ectoplasm stay seated — polite nods, no interest in the field trip.
Present Mic turns to Eraserhead, dramatic as always, hands flung wide:
“Shouta, don’t tell me you’re not at least a little curious. You totally are. I can feel it in my soul.”
He winks at me over his shoulder.
“He’s just pretending not to be.”
Eraserhead doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink.
But I feel it — his gaze. Steady. Focused. Following every inch of movement as I pass.
Heavy, without being hostile. Unblinking.
I step past him slowly, arm still linked with Midnight’s.
And I look back.
Not enough to turn my head — just a glance, sharp and deliberate, out of the corner of my eye.
I meet his gaze. Hold it.
Just long enough to make sure the message lands:
Still watching. Careful, Eraser. Keep that up, and I might start thinking you’re interested.
A smirk ghosts across my mouth — too quick to read as real.
But not quick enough to miss.
Let him wonder.
Let’s see who cracks first.
He doesn’t respond.
But his jaw tightens. Barely.
And one brow twitches — just enough to register if you’re paying attention.
I am.
Because there it is.
A shift in the surface. Like something practiced slipped, then reset. Subtle. Controlled. A mask worn well — but not flawlessly.
Present Mic snorts softly behind me, barely restraining a laugh.
“Told you he was curious.”