The question hung there longer than it should have, weightless and dense. Like a thread tugged from the wrong part of the weave—and now the whole pattern strained around it.

  The hum of the scooter behind the building didn’t shift. A dog barked twice down the block like it hadn’t gotten the memo. Somewhere near an alley, a cicada buzzed like it had missed the cue to stop. The sound hiccuped once, then gave up entirely—either stunned by the silence or insulted it wasn’t the main event.

  Ranma hadn’t moved. Still loose. Hands in his pockets. Balanced like he’d chosen the exact patch of ground that asked for nothing. But that line—it wasn’t flippant. Not really. Not the way he said it.

  No one answered. Not because they didn’t have something to say—but because everything they could say felt like it might land wrong.

  Obi didn’t shift his weight. He held steady, jaw set—not clenched, just anchored. The kind of stillness that didn’t posture. The kind that bore weight. What makes you so sure I’m not the problem? He'd seen men ask that before. But not like this. Not calmly. Not like it mattered less what you said than what you felt when you answered.

  Hinawa’s gaze narrowed behind the gleam of his glasses. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Ranma’s question hadn’t been rhetorical—it had been deliberate. The kind of probe you use to test for weaknesses without looking like you're pushing.

  Tamaki crossed her arms tighter, then immediately regretted it. Her flame stirred uninvited. She bit down on the instinct to speak first. Her voice was too hot right now, and the last thing she needed was to sound like she cared.

  Arthur glanced at Hinawa like maybe the answer should come from him. When it didn’t, he blinked slowly and looked back at Ranma, confused but not afraid. Like a knight unsure whether the castle was cursed or just very well defended.

  Maki leaned forward, forearms resting lightly on her thighs, her gaze locked on Ranma’s stance. She wasn’t listening to his voice anymore—she was reading weight shifts, pressure points, the small tells in how he let gravity treat him. She didn’t know what the right answer was. But she knew he was still testing them.

  Iris didn’t speak. But her head tilted slightly—not to Ranma, but to Nyx, who sat coiled like something half-listening to a deeper frequency. Her tail twitched once, marking something only she understood.

  Only Nyx moved. The cat’s head turned slightly, golden eyes tracking the shape of silence like it had a scent. Her tail curled once, slow and deliberate, then tapped the pavement once—soft but final.

  Arthur blinked slowly, like the quiet had finally caught up to him. “Wait. No—hold on. That sounded like a confession. Right? That was a confession?” His hand hovered near his sword—then stopped, unsure. “Or maybe it was a riddle. Which means it is a confession. From a dragon.”

  From the teens on the bench by the daikon cart, faint laughter carried. Her friend elbowed her again, this time not in jest, and muttered something about “weirdos with swords and cats.” The whisper wasn’t subtle—but the bench creaked loud enough to pretend it hadn’t happened.

  Maki groaned softly. “Arthur…”

  “What?” Arthur gestured at the empty air like it had betrayed him. “I’m just trying to get clarification. Is this a threat reveal or a test of moral ambiguity?”

  Maki rolled her eyes, but her fingers twitched once on her sleeve—like she hadn’t decided if this was supposed to be funny.

  “He didn’t confess, Arthur.” She muttered, eyes narrowing. “That was him watching us blink.”

  She uncrossed her arms, gaze flicking to Obi, then to Tamaki. Like she knew exactly how much had slipped and wasn’t sure if he’d clocked all of it—or just enough to be dangerous.

  “I mean…” Arthur spoke up, hesitation threading the words. “You did suplex a lieutenant. That’s like, top-tier boss music.”

  Ranma didn’t answer. But one brow lifted—like he wasn’t denying it, just wondering how that was the takeaway.

  Maki snorted, soft and low. “Technically buried him.”

  “I stand corrected.” Arthur straightened a little, trying not to look rattled. “Which is definitely something a dragon would do.”

  Maki didn’t answer. Just exhaled through her nose, like Arthur had asked the right question in entirely the wrong language.

  Tamaki’s arms were still crossed. She shifted her weight slightly, the heel of one boot grinding against the pavement. “Yeah, well… I don’t think he has something to prove.” Her eyes cut to Arthur before drifting back to Ranma. “He already did,” she said— and she wasn’t sure how many times she’d meant it now.

  Obi turned his head slightly—just enough to acknowledge her, but not enough to shift attention away from what was still unresolved.

  Ranma stayed where he was, posture easy, gaze still measuring. They were talking like he wasn’t there—and for once, he didn’t mind.

  Iris’s hands were folded, but her foot tapped softly against the concrete—a rhythm too even to be nerves. She spoke without raising her voice. “He wasn’t warning us. He was giving us a chance to see him. Before we decided he was a problem.”

  “That’s assuming he wants to be seen,” Hinawa said, tone dry, posture unreadable. “Every answer was an evasion. Just didn’t look like one.”

  “That’s not the same as lying,” Iris replied.

  “No,” Hinawa said. “It’s harder to track.”

  The sizzle of grilling chicken cracked across the lot—sharp, precise, like a chef’s knife on stone. Somewhere past the smoke, someone swore under their breath.

  Nyx tilted her head slightly from her place at Ranma’s side. Her eyes scanned each of them—not curious. Just aware. The tip of her tail flicked once, as if filing the silence into categories.

  Iris’s voice broke the quiet, soft and simple. “He didn’t say it like he wanted us to answer.” She didn’t pause. “He said it like he already knew we couldn’t.”

  “Maybe it’s not about being the problem.” She tilted her head slightly, her gaze still fixed on Ranma. “Maybe he just wanted to see if we’d hear the question right.”

  Ranma didn’t interrupt. He just kept watching. Like the line he dropped was still bouncing, and he was cataloging how each one of them caught it.

  Arthur leaned in slightly. “Okay, that was kind of cool. Was that like a nun riddle?”

  Iris didn’t laugh, but her head tilted just slightly. “It made sense,” she said, quiet but certain. “Kind of.”

  Tamaki’s sigh came out as more of a scoff. “Don’t feed it.”

  Hinawa’s gaze didn’t shift, but his voice finally cut in—flat, as always. “It was a test. The moment he asked, he started measuring how we’d respond.”

  “Measuring what?” Arthur asked.

  “Intent,” Hinawa said. His chest rose once, shallow and precise. “Control.” His eyes flicked toward Ranma. “Honesty.” Then back to Obi. “Same way we’ve been doing to him.”

  Obi let the silence breathe. A long breath, anchored in gravel and posture. His gaze swept the team once—no signal, no order—just a reminder, this wasn’t about protocol.

  “It’s a fair question,” he said finally. “But it’s not the first one I’m asking.”

  He stepped forward—not aggressive, not challenging—just a fraction closer, enough that his voice dropped naturally to conversation range.

  “I’m asking if you’re still here because you’re looking for something—or because you’re waiting for something to find you.”

  He didn’t press. Didn’t posture. Just stood there, calm and unhurried, giving Ranma the space to choose whether to answer.

  Hinawa shifted his stance by half a step, as if recentering on an invisible axis. “Either way,” he said, voice flat, “you’re still here.”

  Ranma didn’t blink. But the corner of his mouth ticked up—like he was grading their commentary on a curve.

  -o-0-o-O-o-0-o-

  Nyx looked up—just once—her ears rotating slow before going still again. Behind her, a windchime caught a breath of air and offered three notes that didn’t match. A minor key disagreement. Even the breeze had questions.

  The pause didn’t collapse. It stretched—wide enough for everyone to feel how close they were to crossing some line none of them could name.

  Then Arthur, quiet, almost thoughtful. “It’d be easier if he was the problem.”

  Tamaki’s head turned. “What?”

  He shrugged once. “If he was dangerous, I’d know what to do.”

  Maki didn’t shift. But her gaze moved to Ranma, and held. “So would he.”

  That one didn’t bounce like the rest. Somewhere near the daikon cart, a delivery bike clattered to a stop—too fast, too close, and entirely uninterested in dramatic timing.

  Ranma didn’t blink. But something in his posture gave way—not tension, not ease, just a slight redistribution of weight that softened his outline without loosening it. He hadn’t changed positions. He’d simply rebalanced. Maki caught it before anyone else did. Nyx tracked the shift half a second later, her tail tapping once against the pavement in a pattern only she seemed to understand.

  He let the silence hang for another breath, then spoke—not to break it, but to adjust it.

  “That’s a lot of debate over one sentence.” The words weren’t sharp.

  “Y’all all think too loud,” Ranma said, shaking his head. Not quite teasing—but close.

  Arthur’s brow knit as he straightened. He opened his mouth—but Ranma held up a hand. Open palm. Easy motion. No sting in it.

  Arthur closed his mouth.

  “Not a complaint,” Ranma added.

  His gaze moved slowly between them—Obi first, then Maki, then Iris. He skipped Arthur. His glance toward Tamaki held for an extra half-second, before continuing its arc across the group.

  “You’re all carrying something,” he said. “Posture, questions, memory—doesn’t really matter. I’ve seen martial artists who hit softer than what some of you are holding back right now.”

  Nyx shifted slightly at his side, the motion small enough to miss if you weren’t paying attention. Her eyes tracked no one in particular, but her tail had stopped moving.

  Ranma exhaled softly through his nose. His gaze drifted toward the market’s edge, where a kid was yelling about daikon prices like the world still made sense.

  Then he looked at Arthur. “Bad news, Knight King,” he said, voice dry. “I’m not a dragon.” His voice didn’t rise, didn’t twist. “And for the record—that wasn’t a confession.”

  He didn’t quite smile. But the edge of his mouth curved slightly, just enough to register as dry. “But I’ve fought dragons,” he added, watching Arthur out of the corner of his eye.

  Arthur’s eyes lit up. “Real ones?”

  Ranma tilted his head, smile ghosting wider now. “Define ‘real.’”

  Arthur opened his mouth, paused, then frowned. “Trick question.”

  A soft snort escaped Tamaki before she caught it. Her arms stayed crossed, but her stance wasn’t so guarded now—less fortress, more watchtower. Maki coughed into her hand, the sound suspiciously close to a laugh. Iris covered her mouth a beat too late to pretend she hadn’t smiled.

  A takeout bag fluttered across the lot, caught on a breeze that hadn’t been there a moment ago. It hit a trash bin, bounced, and settled upright like it had taken a bow. One of the girls on the bench clapped once—then immediately looked embarrassed.

  Ranma let the moment stretch—just long enough for the ripple to fade. Then his gaze shifted back to Obi. His posture didn’t tighten, but his gaze sharpened slightly.

  “You want a story,” he said, voice cooled. “But stories come with morals. I’ve got training scars and an attitude.”

  The breeze stirred faintly across the lot again, dragging heat and food smoke and the soft metal clink of a sign turning in its bracket.

  His eyes didn’t stay on Obi. They drifted to Hinawa—just long enough to acknowledge the weight of stillness he carried—then passed to Iris. He didn’t say anything. But something in the line of his mouth shifted. Like he was still answering a question she hadn’t asked out loud.

  Iris hadn’t stopped watching Nyx—not just her movement, but the timing. She didn’t know what it meant, not exactly. But when Ranma’s gaze moved, the cat always seemed to know a heartbeat before he did.

  She didn’t speak right away. Just watched the pattern hold one more time.

  “If you didn’t want to be seen…” Her voice came quiet, not accusing. “You’re bad at it.”

  Ranma didn’t answer. But Nyx’s head turned slightly—just enough to catch the light. Not at Iris. At him. Her tail flicked once, slow and even, and settled back down like something had been decided.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  “I’m not trying to hide,” he said. “I just don’t unpack for people still deciding if I’m luggage or a live grenade.” His smirk didn’t deepen. It just stayed there—unapologetic and angled.

  Maki shifted her weight, reading his center again. He hadn’t retreated—but he wasn’t opening up either. He was circling. Staying light on his feet, even when standing still.

  Obi didn’t interrupt. He waited.

  Nyx’s ear flicked once. Her gaze stayed low, but her body had started to lean—barely—toward his.

  “I didn’t show up to cause trouble,” Ranma said, tone flat “But if trouble shows up around me, I don’t run. That’s not philosophy. That’s just habit.”

  “But hey,” he added, one brow lifting a fraction as his eyes flicked back toward Obi, “I don’t blame you. Someone shows up outta nowhere, flattens a psychopath, and doesn’t fill out a visitor card?”

  He let the sentence breathe, then shrugged—fluid, not performative. “I’d be suspicious too.”

  Nyx flicked her tail once against his boot. He didn’t look down. Just dipped his chin like the thought had passed between them already. A food wrapper skated past the edge of the lot, scraping the pavement like it was stalling for time.

  “Not here to sell a story,” he said. “Just trying to figure out the weather before it figures me out.”

  The faintest hint of a smirk ghosted across his mouth. “And for what it’s worth? So far, not the worst welcome I’ve had.”

  He glanced between them, stance relaxed, but his balance edged forward—like he could feel the tension stretching too thin. His voice stayed casual, almost amused, but not dismissive.

  “But if anyone’s waiting for me to explain myself…” The smirk didn’t sharpen. It just held, steady and patient. “You’re gonna need better bait.”

  Arthur glanced around like he’d missed something. “Wait, is this an interrogation or a customer satisfaction survey?”

  Obi didn’t fill the silence. He just let it stretch, long enough to prove he wasn’t afraid of it. The team was quiet now, but it wasn’t stillness. It was adjustment. He stepped forward—not with purpose, just permission. The kind of movement that didn’t push, but cleared space.

  “No one’s interrogating anyone,” Obi said, still not looking away. “We’re talking.”

  Hinawa adjusted his stance by half a breath, almost imperceptible. “That depends on whether he intends to answer.”

  “Depends on the questions,” Ranma replied, casual. His gaze passed across the group again—not as a challenge this time, just taking the measure of the moment. “And how polite they are.”

  Nyx shifted beside him. Her tail made a single, deliberate circle, then settled again.

  -o-0-o-O-o-0-o-

  Tamaki didn’t speak. But her arms had uncrossed slightly, and she kept fidgeting with the cuff of her sleeve like it had started itching when Ranma stopped looking at her. Her eyes cut to him once, then back down, like she was trying not to ask a question she didn’t understand yet.

  Maki caught the glance. Didn’t call her on it. But the corner of her mouth moved—just a twitch—and then stilled.

  She leaned in again, studying the way he said it. The rhythm. The center of gravity never wavered—still centered, still loose. He didn’t stand like someone open to a fight. He stood like someone who didn’t need to consider one. And that was harder to read.

  “You don’t talk like a fighter,” she said quietly, more thought than challenge. “But you stand like you’ve already been through the fight twice.”

  Ranma didn’t answer her. Not directly. Just glanced down at Nyx, then back at Maki.

  “Some fights don’t end,” he said. “They just wait for your footing to slip.”

  Iris’s eyes flicked toward him—not with alarm, just a kind of quiet understanding. “That sounds like something a soldier would say.”

  “No,” Hinawa said flatly. “A survivor.”

  Ranma gave no indication he heard either of them. But his breathing slowed—just slightly. Like their read had landed close enough not to warrant correction.

  Tamaki shifted again—arms still crossed, but the pressure was different now. Her jaw clenched.

  “Right, because surviving makes you an expert?” she said. It came out too fast. Sharper than she meant. But the damage was done.

  “He’s not the only one who’s been through it,” she muttered—too quiet to carry all the way, but just loud enough for Iris and Maki to hear.

  Iris didn’t speak, but her glance dipped, almost like she wanted to say something and chose not to.

  “We didn’t show up to be measured,” she added, the edge coming quieter now. “We came to see if you were dangerous. That’s all.”

  She didn’t look at anyone when she said it. Especially not Ranma.

  “We don’t have to prove anything.” Her voice wasn’t angry. Just sharper than she meant it to be. And it stayed there in the air, daring someone else to answer first.

  Ranma looked at her. Not hard. Not teasing. Just aware.

  “Didn’t say you did,” he replied. “But you were ready to.”

  That earned him a snort from Arthur, who adjusted his collar like he’d just been named knight commander by a voice only he could hear.

  “To be fair,” he muttered, “that’s exactly what a dragon would say.”

  Ranma raised a brow. “Still stuck on that?”

  Arthur folded his arms. “Actually, I’ve revised my theory.”

  “I’m listening,” Ranma said, tone dry.

  Arthur held up one finger. “You eat like a mortal. You talk like a monk. And you walk like you're sightseeing through a combat zone.”

  He paused, then pointed decisively. “You’re a disguised demigod.”

  The wind gave up halfway through a gust, like it didn’t want to get involved. A bird overhead turned in midair and changed course, visibly rethinking its priorities. Somewhere across the lot, a flag on a noodle stand went limp like even it was tired of Arthur’s theories.

  Maki laughed under her breath, and even Iris covered a smile.

  Tamaki, meanwhile, just muttered, “Oh my god, he’s serious.”

  Ranma’s smirk was dry, nearly invisible. “What do you mean, disguised?”

  Arthur didn’t catch it. He squared his shoulders like Ranma had just confirmed the hypothesis, and maybe it did—for him, at least.

  “Exactly,” he said. “Disguised. You’re clearly hiding your divine presence under a veil of sarcasm and perfectly balanced posture.”

  He squared his shoulders, completely serious. “You blend in just enough to confuse the civilians, but not enough to fool trained eyes.”

  He tapped his temple. “I have trained eyes.”

  “Debatable,” Maki murmured.

  Arthur ignored her. “You drop out of the sky, flatten a White Clad, vanish into smoke, and reappear balanced on a fence rail like it’s a footpath.”

  He pointed with finality. “Clearly, divine nonsense.”

  Hinawa shifted just enough to give Obi a side glance, like he was trying to calculate the manpower it would take to walk Arthur quietly into another district. Obi said nothing. He’d already learned this particular hill wasn’t worth dying on.

  Ranma tilted his head, the corner of his mouth pulling up just enough to qualify as a smirk. “So that’s your theory. Not human. Just… bad at hiding wings.”

  Iris blinked. “Wait. You’re not a demigod?”

  That earned her a short look from Obi.

  Iris held up a hand, half-defensive, half-playful. “I’m just asking. It would explain a lot.”

  “Oh please,” Tamaki said, waving a hand like she could shoo the magic away. “He eats grilled chicken like the rest of us.”

  “You don’t have to be human to like grilled chicken,” Arthur shot back.

  “Don’t encourage him,” Hinawa said flatly. But he was already calculating. Ranma hadn’t flinched once since they started talking—and hadn’t postured either. Not normal. But his breathing stayed even. His tension never rose. Whatever he was, he wasn’t unstable.

  Obi stayed quiet, watching Ranma—not with suspicion, but with intent. The team was circling. Not closing in. Just orbiting. Letting him steer. And Ranma—he wasn’t deflecting. He was guiding the tempo. Keeping them curious without ever handing them a shape they could hold.

  Ranma raised an eyebrow. Not high. Not sharp. Just enough to register that he’d heard every word and was deciding what it all deserved.

  “You seriously think I’m not human,” he said, not questioning—just laying the idea on the ground between them like a misplaced shoe.

  Arthur straightened a little. “I mean exactly that,” he said, finger aimed squarely at Ranma like he’d just announced him heir to a flaming throne.

  “You walk around like a background character, but the moment something explodes, you’re already standing where the story ends.”

  Ranma didn’t move. Just shifted his gaze, not to Arthur, but to the point over his shoulder where the market noise was starting to return—like the world itself had been holding its breath.

  Arthur nodded once, solemn. “I’ve studied myths. The signs are all there—strange arrival, cat companion, questionable manners.” He ticked them off on his fingers like they came from an official checklist.

  His arm dropped, not in defeat—just emphasis. “That’s not civilian behavior. That’s plot armor.”

  Nyx’s ears twitched once, then stilled again. If cats had the capacity for side-eye, hers would’ve been lethal.

  Maki let out a slow breath through her nose, the edge of her mouth twitching. “Plot armor,” she repeated, voice dry. “That’s your theory?”

  “Absolutely,” Arthur said, without hesitation. “He’s protected by narrative force.”

  Tamaki made a quiet sound that didn’t quite become a sigh. “Oh my god.”

  The teen nearest the cart raised a piece of daikon like it was a microphone. “Reporting live from the intersection of Weird and Whatever This Is,” she intoned before eating it in one bite.

  Her friend finally looked away from Ranma—just long enough to look at the other teen and mutter, “Yeah, this anime got weird.”

  Undeterred, Arthur planted his hands on his hips. “I bet if you dropped him into a black hole, the plot would twist to let him climb out.”

  Maki flicked a glance at Ranma—still motionless, still unreadable—and nodded once. “And somehow, that’s not even your worst theory today.”

  From beside Obi, Hinawa exhaled once—short and unamused. Hinawa smoothed a crease at his cuff with deliberate care. “He’s extrapolating nonsense from coincidence,” he muttered.

  Nyx yawned without shame and draped herself across his boot like she’d stopped taking this seriously ten minutes ago.

  Ranma didn’t laugh. But the corner of his mouth twitched like the effort not to had almost cost him something.

  Tamaki’s hand came up, pressing to her temple. “I swear to Sol, if he walks out of here with a title—I’m putting in for hazard pay.”

  “You joke,” Arthur said, straightening, “but I have a sword and everything.”

  Maki leaned forward, arms still folded, and met Ranma’s eyes over the exchange. “Just say the word. We’ll stop him.”

  Ranma glanced between them. “No need. If he wants to build a shrine, I’m not paying the taxes.”

  Tamaki snorted again, but this time didn’t try to hide it.

  Obi let the rhythm carry, letting it move without reining it in. There was something valuable in the way it had shifted—the tone had softened, but not lost its shape. They weren’t circling anymore. They were drifting closer to something like a shared perimeter.

  Hinawa pushed his glasses up with a single finger. “You’re all anthropomorphizing tension,” he said, not unkind, just factual.

  Arthur turned slightly, frowning as if that were a chargeable offense. “I think that’s illegal,” he said, mostly to himself.

  “No,” Hinawa replied, not looking up. “It’s just counterproductive.”

  Tamaki exhaled through her nose, arms still folded. She didn’t look at Ranma when she spoke. “You called him a variable,” she said, directing it toward Hinawa instead. “Maybe we’re just trying to figure out what kind.”

  Her voice didn’t carry heat. Not this time.

  Maki shifted her posture, one elbow on her knee, chin tilted slightly. “He’s the kind that doesn’t take control,” she said, gaze steady. “But he doesn’t give it away either.”

  Ranma’s weight didn’t shift, but his eyes held hers a beat longer than usual. There was no pushback. No agreement. Just acknowledgment.

  Arthur tapped his chin with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “I still say he’s part-dragon.”

  That earned a look from Ranma, amused and unreadable. “What’s the other part?” he asked, the smirk ghosting back into play.

  Arthur paused, frowning like the question hadn’t occurred to him. “...Probably sarcasm,” he said at last.

  That cracked something. Maki let out a laugh—short and caught-off-guard. Iris smiled again, this time without hiding it. Even Tamaki’s lips twitched before she caught herself and rolled her eyes.

  Obi, still quiet until now, stepped forward—not to interrupt, just to anchor. His stance remained open, his tone calm. “Whatever he is,” he said, arms folding across his chest with practiced ease, “he’s here now. And he saved lives. We haven’t forgotten that.”

  “This isn’t about classification,” he said, voice low and steady. “It’s about conversation.” His eyes held Ranma’s without tightening. “And whether you’re a dragon, a god, or just a guy with good footwork… we’d still be here.”

  Ranma didn’t smile. But the line of his posture shifted—half a breath inward. It wasn’t surrender. It was reassessment. His eyes lingered a moment longer on Obi than necessary, and whatever passed behind them didn’t ripple the surface.

  Obi let the silence settle—not awkwardly, just long enough to draw a new breath between them.

  “Everyone’s got a past,” he added, tone still even. “We’re more interested in your next step.”

  Ranma’s weight didn’t shift, but something in his focus did—like he was checking whether the next step was solid before pretending it was easy.

  And when the quiet didn’t pass to anyone else… the silence felt like his to navigate.

  -o-0-o-O-o-0-o-

  They were laughing now. Not all of them—but enough that the sound shifted something in the air. Not a trap. Not a tactic. Just… relief bleeding in through the cracks.

  Ranma didn’t move right away. Still standing loose, weight balanced through the arches of his feet, like the pavement had options and he wasn’t ready to trust any of them yet. His hands stayed in his pockets—not for posturing. He let the silence settle—felt the way it didn’t close in this time, just stretched and rebalanced. Still alert. Still guarded.

  Nyx hadn’t moved, but her body had stopped coiling. She was still touching his leg, tail slack, ears pointed outward.

  He didn’t follow her gaze. But whatever had been gnawing at the edge of his senses pulsed again. Not a threat, not yet. But something threaded wrong. It had been there since the others arrived. A catch in the back of the rhythm—like something breathing slow beneath the surface, waiting for its moment.

  Nyx had been tracking it too. He knew that now. The way her tail froze mid-sweep. The way she stopped reacting to people and started reacting to empty space.

  The smirk on his face had already faded. More instinct than expression. It had done its job—eased the edge, bought him breathing room. But now, it left behind only stillness. And the thing waiting underneath.

  Yakitori smoke drifted over the fence again—bounced off Nyx’s whiskers, curled past Tamaki’s boots, and kept moving like it didn’t want to be involved.

  They weren’t circling anymore. They weren’t sure what they were doing, but it wasn’t just testing his weight anymore. It was watching for the shape of him under the surface. Not the surface he gave them—the one he hadn't figured out how to stop wearing.

  His gaze drifted. Not scanning for threat—just listening to weight. Maki was watching like she was trying to solve a kata from breath alone. Hinawa’s posture hadn’t changed, but the angle of his stance had opened—just enough to show he wasn’t bracing anymore. Tamaki was still burning under the surface, but the heat wasn’t aimed. Not yet.

  Iris met his eyes without hesitation. No judgment. Just the quiet patience of someone willing to listen longer than most people had the nerve to talk.

  And Arthur… Arthur was still convinced he was divine nonsense wrapped in martial footwork. But at least he meant it as a compliment.

  He tilted his head slightly, just enough to catch the breeze tugging smoke back across the lot. Yakitori smoke, warm dust, and the faint tang of metal. Not home. But familiar enough.

  The idea of explaining himself—really explaining—felt like lifting something heavy in the wrong direction.

  ‘They wouldn’t get it,’ he thought. ‘Not the curse. Not the history.’

  He rolled one foot against the pavement. Let it find its balance again. Then he looked at Obi. Just long enough to let the space between them close by one more step.

  Nyx flicked her tail once beside him, a lazy motion with no signal in it. Her eyes weren’t on them anymore. They were on him.

  “Protected by narrative force,” Ranma echoed, like he needed to hear how stupid it sounded before deciding whether to argue. His voice stayed flat, but the corner of his mouth twitched. “That’s new.”

  Nyx’s tail flicked once against his boot. Approval? Sarcasm? Probably both.

  “You all done guessing?” he asked, voice dry. “Or do I need to register as a walking misunderstanding?”

  One of the girls snorted—too loud, too sudden. She clamped a hand over her mouth like she hadn’t meant to break whatever moment they were in. Her friend shot her a sideways glare that didn’t hold.

  Arthur scratched the back of his head. His expression walked the line between awe and confusion, like he’d just lost an argument to a riddle.

  “I’m still voting dragon,” he muttered. “Just a real chill one.”

  “Not now, Knight Boy.” Ranma raised one eyebrow. “You want a dragon story? Find a dragon.” He smirked. “You’d just get the ending wrong anyway.”

  Maki’s breath caught halfway between a snort and something sharper. She didn’t let it out. Not yet.

  Obi didn’t move, but his head tilted slightly. Still not leading. Just... giving him space.

  “If I told you everything...” He exhaled, eyes still on the alley wall behind them. “You wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

  He shifted his weight just slightly—not back. Just off-center. Like he’d moved in place without moving at all.

  “I didn’t come here on purpose,” he continued, eyes shifting toward the edge of the lot where the smoke from the food stalls still curled through the air like it had nothing better to do. “Didn’t get here with a plan. And I didn’t have a destination when I landed.”

  Nyx’s ear flicked—fast this time. Her head turned toward the edge of the lot, and her body tensed—not defensive, but tight in a way that pulled her attention into one clean line. No sound. No movement. But something had just gone wrong.

  He didn’t follow her gaze. But something in the air snapped sideways—sharp, cold, and close. It wasn’t Ki. And it wasn’t flame. It felt like something trying to be both—but failing. A presence, too quiet to make sense and far too close to ignore.

  His own Ki surged up before he could think—tightening through his center, like a wire suddenly under tension. The pull lanced through his core—chakra first, then blood, then breath. Like someone had grabbed the thread behind his navel and yanked.

  And for a half-second, the background noise cut out—no wind, no voices. Just the sound of his breath landing wrong inside his own chest. For a blink, something in the pull wasn’t heat or pressure—it was panic. Raw and echoing, like someone screaming underwater.

  He didn’t react. Not outwardly. Just let his eyes fall back toward Obi—the one who hadn’t asked for a label and hadn’t needed one to offer space.

  “You want to know what comes next?” His voice dropped, almost like it wasn’t for them. “I think we’re both about to find out.”

  Obi didn’t move—but the silence around him did. Like even his breath caught the change in current.

  One of the teens stopped moving. The other noticed—just barely—and fumbled for her drink, only to miss the cup.

  Nyx shifted again, but this time rose to all fours—ears forward, shoulders tight. Her gaze locked on the bench, tail frozen mid-air like a counterweight. And very clearly alarmed.