The next few hours unraveled in chaos as word of the Jackal's presence rippled through the rest of my family like a dropped stone in still water.
"WHAAAAAT?!"
Zofia's shrill outburst cracked through the air just as I finished recounting what I saw. Her voice carried like a thrown plate—loud, sharp, and completely unwelcome.
"Shhh! Keep it down!"
I hissed, clamping a hand over her mouth.
"Do you want him to hear you too?"
Even though the Jackal was still on the far platform, well out of earshot, I wasn't about to gamble on distance, not with him.
Zofia blinked rapidly, muffled protests spilling into my palm. When I finally let her go, she leaned in, eyes wide as saucers.
"Oh...right. But are you serious? The Jackal…is riding back with us?"
She paled instantly, as if an invisible vampire had sunk into her neck and was draining her dry. I'd seen Zofia loud, smug, angry, and even tipsy—but never like this, this was new...
...This was fear...
"But wait…if the Jackal really is here, then…why hasn't anything exploded yet?"
Zofia muttered, her voice dropping now that the panic had passed.
"I mean, that's the only reason the boss wanted to drag us to this sh*thole in the first place. He's been acting like he gonna to jump straight into a deathmatch the second he heard the Jackal was back in Irkalla"
She had a point, for once...
"He didn't want to endanger us"
I kept my answer short, the memory of that earlier encounter was still fresh in my mind—the way the boss spoke to the Jackal, that unbearable pressure in the air, like the whole platform would snap in half if one of them exhaled wrong.
"..."
Zofia fell silent for a beat.
Then a soft, "…Ahh" slipped from her lips.
"Yeah, that does makes sense"
She murmured, nodding slowly.
"Still…"
Her eyes narrowed slightly.
"Just to be safe…let's stay out of both the boss's and our new travel companion's way for now"
her lips pressed themselves into a thin line.
"Huh?"
I blinked.
"Wait, what? The Jackal I get, sure, but why the boss too?"
I asked, confused by her words.
"..."
Zofia gave me a look—half contenplative, half deadly serious.
"Because you know how he is. What if his bloodlust flares up mid-trip? Or worse, what if the Jackal pokes at him first? You want to be sitting in the middle of that?"
I opened my mouth, shut it, tried again.
"That's…"
I couldn't argue.. as much as I wanted to believe the boss had a leash on his tempremental nature, the truth was…he didn't, not when one of his old adversaries was involved.
"…Fair, I guess"
I muttered, crossing my arms.
"Exactly, better cautious than ending up dead in a smoking crater"
Zofia gave a sharp nod, like a general issuing a command.
"Hmm..."
I scratched my chin thoughtfully, letting the silence stretch for a moment as I gathered my words.
"Hey, Z?"
I turned to her, lowering my voice slightly.
"What's on your noggin Fifi?"
She said, already predicting that I had questions on my mind.
"I've been meaning to ask…you fought alongside the others and the boss against him during the Second War of Vindication, right? What was it like—fighting him? The White Jackal, I mean. I wanna know his style. Just in case...actually now that I think about it I just don't know much about the Wars of Vindication in general, I know the basics sure but not the details"
I wasn't asking out of idle curiosity. From the moment we'd first locked eyes, I could feel it—something about him was wrong in a way I didn't have the vocabulary for. Terrifying, yes, but more than that. Fundamentally wrong. But sensing something wasn't the same as understanding it. And knowing your opponent was the first step to surviving them.
"..."
Zofia closed her eyes. Her expression fell into something dark and distant, like she'd just bitten into a memory laced with poison. When she finally spoke, her voice was quieter than usual.
"And you're better off for it I say. The Wars of Vindication were...Gehenna itself"
Those words hit harder than any dramatic pause ever could. From Zofia—Zofia, who could make a joke out of anything—that level of despair felt like the world turning upside down.
"Everyone was out for themselves..."
She continued, her tone flat and brittle.
"Every last one of us clinging to some vague illusion of retribution, or reclaiming what we thought had been stolen from us. Allegiances changed faster than the weather. The Jaeger Corps sold themselves to the highest bidder more times than I could count. And alliances…collapsed like paper houses as soon as someone saw that they could benefit more from stabbing their friend in the back. Like what happened between us and the Corsairs"
Her eyes lost focus, like she was watching it all happen again in her mind.
"You had kids—kids!—barely old enough to hold a weapon let alone trained in combat being tossed into the meat grinder with nothing but a name tag and prayers. Both sides pushing out new prototype weapons, rushing them to the field just to see if they worked. It was Gehenna. At the very least that's what the Second War was. A nightmare made real"
"Zofia..."
I started to say she didn't have to relive this for my sake, but she kept going anyway.
"But even in that nightmare…he stood out as an enemy"
She shuddered. Not dramatically. Not on purpose. But the kind of tremor that crawls up your spine when you remember something your body wished it could forget.
"No, "enemy" doesn't quite cover it"
she muttered.
"It was like...fighting a natural disaster"
She rubbed at her temple like it physically hurt to recall.
"A...natural disaster?!"
I repeated, raising a brow. That sounded ridiculous. And yet...a part of me knew that it was not entirely implausible, either.
"He was a storm. A living, breathing storm that hated you, specifically. There was no negotiating with him, no resisting him, no retreating, no mercy. He moved across the battlefield like the tides of the ocean, and left nothing behind but ash and silence in his trail"
Her voice quivered, barely holding steady now.
"Honestly...the first time I saw him in motion, I thought my brain was going to snap. It just—didn't make sense. That something like that could exist. That one person could carry that much naked power…it wasn't just unfair. It was offensive to reality itself. But no matter how hard my mind tries to reject it, eventually it broke and accepted what it saw. Especially when I saw it over and over again"
She took a long breath before continuing.
"During our last encounter with him…me, Garry, and Lele couldn't do a damn thing. We were overwhelmed—completely. It wasn't just raw prowess. It was the way he fought. Cold, calculated, and cruel. Like someone who not only knew every advantage he had, but perfected the use of those advantages through constant life-or-death situations"
"..."
I had no words. I'd never seen Zofia like this. Not nervous. Not shaken. Not laughing her way through danger like she always did. This was...something deeper. Something scarred.
"The boss was the only one who could even stand up to him"
She said quietly.
"If the Jackal was a storm, then the boss was a mountain. Immovable, enduring. They fought for three days and nights. No interruptions, no pauses. Just…war"
She stared off again, her voice barely above a whisper.
"In the end, the boss drove him off. Cut off one of his arms, but not before the Jackal gave him that scar—the scar, the one that runs from his left hip to his right shoulder. Boss said it happened in the first hour of their fight. Imagine that..."
She chuckled lightly, not out of amusement but the caustic recognition of what that feat meant.
"And the worst part? He was a child as well, no different from the countless other conscripts if you discounted his abnormal abilities...barely your size when he fought the boss"
She added, completing the sheer insanity of circumstance surrounding what the Jackal pulled off.
"*Gulp*"
I swallowed, hard.
"The boss was in a coma for a whole day after that while we tended to him. The Jackal, on the other hand, just disappeared. He dropped off the map completely, didn't take part in any battles, nothing. Probably needed time to patch himself up after their fight. It wasn't until about a month later that we started hearing whispers again—rumors of him resurfacing. Isolated massacres. Ambushes. Whole squads wiped out like they never existed. That's when we knew he was back on the field—luckily, we didn't run into him again for the rest of the war"
She finally stopped. The silence that followed felt like the aftermath of a funeral.
"Wow...that's..."
"Unbelievable, right? Yeah most would think that"
She said, locking eyes with me.
"But it's the truth. I know what I saw"
Her expression was dead serious.
"..."
I met her gaze. Said nothing. Just listened.
"Now, as for the real answer you're looking for..."
She exhaled.
"The Jackal prefers bladed weapons. Daggers, swords—anything that's fast and lethal. His favorite is a curved eastern blade. I think it's called a "katana" though I could be wrong"
She tapped her fingers against her thigh, like she was recalling a playbook burned into muscle memory.
"His usual tactic? Wait...Wait until you drop your guard, then go in with hyperaggression. Quick, precise, surgical. When that doesn't work, he switches styles. Starts parrying, punishing mistakes with brutal counterattacks. He's a speed type, like you—but don't let that fool you. His strength could rival Garry's. Maybe even surpass it..."
She let out a slow, steadying breath.
"I see..."
I murmured, filing away every word. Every detail mattered. I needed to know who I was dealing with. I needed to be ready for ANY situation.
"Well…thanks for the info, Z. I'm gonna go get some fresh air now"
I gave her a small nod and turned away, my head still swirling with everything she'd said.
"Yeah, that's probably for the best. Rest up, Fifi. You're gonna need it for the trip ahead"
Zofia's voice trailed behind me with a faint smile in it—some of her cheer finally slipping back into place.
"…"
I didn't answer. I just kept walking, letting the hum of the station fade as I stepped out into the open through one of the many entrances.
"Ugh..."
The city of Calavera hit me all at once—a sensory overload of sound, scent, and motion. Some kind of shopping district stretched before me like a glittering maze of stone and water, its cobbled walkways twisting between glowing storefronts and open-air bazaars. Stalls jutted out from under colorful awnings, their merchants shouting over each other in a cacophony of deals, haggling, and laughter. The scent of grilled meat, spices, and perfume clung thick in the air.
But what set Calavera apart, what made it truly surreal, were the canals.
Thin waterways carved through the city like veins, glistening beneath lanternlight and moonlight alike. Canoes and narrow watercraft glided along them in steady lines, some rowed by hand, others animated with enchantments—soft glyphs glowing faintly along their sides as they moved without a single paddle stroke. Riders leaned lazily against cushions, sipping drinks or browsing from boat-bound stalls that floated right up to the edges of bridges and walkways. The waterways twisted between buildings and beneath archways, giving the whole place a dreamy, flowing rhythm—like the city itself breathed in pulses of water and magic.
Luxury shops stood tall above the main avenues, their displays gleaming with silks, gemstones, and enchanted accessories locked behind arcane barriers. Meanwhile, the deeper you wandered into the web of side alleys and hidden corners, the stranger the stalls became. There, the black market peddled its wares behind half-shuttered canopies—items wrapped in cloth and spoken of only in whispers. Odd trinkets pulsed faintly with forbidden energy. Sellers slipped parcels beneath crates when patrols drifted by on glowing boats. You could buy almost anything here, if you knew which shadows to walk through.
"Oi...isn't that uniform..."
The words reached me like a ripple on still water—soft, but unmistakably pointed. Even from a distance, I could catch the wary, whispering tones of those who had taken notice. Their eyes weren't on me as a person, but on the uniform I wore. The dark hues, the distinct cut, the subtle crest on the shoulder—our colors. The unmistakable mark of Corvus.
"Corvus..."
The name was spat more than spoken, thick with loathing, as if the syllables themselves tasted foul in their mouths. That singular word carried centuries of weight and disdain, a festering wound barely concealed beneath the polite veneer of city life.
But I didn't stop. I didn't even look up. I kept walking—steady, focused, my eyes fixed forward. My thoughts were elsewhere, too tangled and urgent to be distracted by the hostility of strangers. Still, the voices continued, weaving through the crowd like a chorus of scorn.
"What are those traitors doing back here?"
"Shameless..."
"What? Stabbing your home country in the back didn't earn you enough Cicols?"
Each word dripped with contempt, each hissed remark a sharp edge grazing across my skin. The bitterness in their voices clung to me like oil, thick and hard to ignore. I felt their stares trailing behind me, cold and accusing, as if my very presence sullied the streets they walked on. The weight of their judgment bore down on me—not entirely unexpected, but no less exhausting.
(I guess what the boss said about us not being welcomed here was true...)
"..."
Still, I didn't flinch. It didn't concern me.
I didn't have a destination in mind. I just drifted—on foot, along a quiet stretch of stone beside one of the canals, watching the boats glide past and letting the noise blur around me.
"A natural disaster…"
I muttered, echoing Zofia's words under my breath as my legs carried me forward on autopilot. My body moved through the lively haze of Calavera's streets, but my mind was still somewhere else—dragged backward by memory and fear.
(That's a fair comparison...but it's not quite right)
The thought lingered, unsettling and unfinished.
(It did feel like standing on the edge of a cliff, staring down into something bottomless and wrong... but there's something else, something that doesn't sit right with that metaphor)
I tried to pin it down, but it kept slipping through my grasp—like smoke caught in my fingers.
"If he was just a force of nature, I wouldn't be this scared witless..."
I muttered again, low enough that the words were swallowed up by the clamor of the bazaar. No one heard. Maybe that was for the best.
"Yeah...sure, he's terrifying. But that's not all he is"
The memory of those red eyes—unblinking, unreadable—flashed through my mind. I tried to unpack it, to remember the feeling he gave off. It wasn't just fear. It was dread. Like something old and hungry had set its eyes on me and recognized me in a way that I didn't understand.
(A natural disaster is horrifying, yeah, but it's also predictable. You can prepare for it. You can avoid it. There's logic to a storm, to an avalanche, to a wildfire... but him? The Jackal feels...alive, aware, purposeful)
That was what chilled me most. That sense that he wasn't just chaos—he chose to be chaos. He moved like a monster, but his gaze was calculating. Intentional. There was will behind that destruction.
(No...he isn't a natural disaster. He's something far worse…far more…directed)
I kept walking, winding deeper through the canals and stalls, the voices and scents of the market washing over me in a blur. Gondolas floated past on enchanted waters, softly glowing as they carried passengers and wares through the webbed arteries of the city. Music played from somewhere, half-buried beneath the bark of peddlers and the chime of bells.
And still, the weight of that gaze lingered in the back of my mind.
Somewhere in all this chaos, I hoped my thoughts would start to make sense.
"…Just what is he exactly?"
The question slipped out, more to myself than anyone else—another breath lost to the noise of Calavera.
The answer remained maddeningly out of reach.
(I'm the scout. It's my job to know. To map the field, to read the threat, to make sure everyone else isn't walking into a trap...)
I clenched my fists, frustration bubbling beneath my skin.
(And yet here I am—frozen—too shaken to think straight, too terrified to do what I was trained for...)
The disparaging thoughts gnawed at me, as biting as a blade inflicted wound.
(Useless...I'm useless like this)
Before I ever set foot on the frontlines, the boss had assigned me to recon duty. Said my quick legs and sneaky instincts were best suited for staying out of the worst of it. Ironically, that meant I was often the first one dropped behind enemy lines, far from safety, with nothing but my wits and a knife.
And even back then, he drilled the same words into my skull—know your enemy. Study everything. Track their behavior, their tools, their habits, the way they breathe before a fight. Victory always goes to the one who understands the battlefield best.
So now, standing here in the middle of a chaotic, enchanted city surrounded by glowing boats and velvet-draped stalls, unable to make heads or tails of the most dangerous person I've ever seen?
Yeah. That burned...
It burned like Gehenna.
(There's nothing to trace, no pattern, no gaps, no cracks to exploit. There's just this blade hanging over our heads, and I don't even know where the string is...)
The crowd bustled past me, too loud and too close, and I suddenly felt like I couldn't breathe.
I hated this, I hated not knowing, I hated being afraid without knowing why.
"Wait..."
That single word escaped my lips, quiet and breathless, as if saying it aloud might stabilize the sudden shift in my mind.
In the murky depths of my frustration, buried beneath doubt, fear, and the gnawing sense of inadequacy, a flicker of realization glinted—sharp and clean—like the first shaft of golden sunlight breaking through a slate-grey morning sky.
(That's it...fear. I'm afraid of the Jackal...but I don't even know why)
It seemed like such an obvious thought, embarrassingly simple on the surface—but its simplicity made it no less profound.
(Zofia and the boss…they fear him too, but their fear is grounded. They've seen him in battle. They fought him, witnessed firsthand the kind of destruction he's capable of. Their fear has weight, shape, cause. Mine...mine's just shadows and instinct, an unformed thing that wraps around my lungs like chains and won't let go)
I paused, watching the reflections in the water ripple with the motion of passing gondolas, magically animated and drifting like ghosts across the canals. The murmur of the bazaar behind me faded into a dull hum.
(As a scout, I'm supposed to know—to understand. That's the whole point. Reconnaissance, profiling, analysis. That's what I do. So why am I standing here paralyzed, with no intel, no plan, and no nerve?)
(It's not wrong to be afraid. The boss taught me that. Fear keeps you alive, keeps you moving. But fear without action is just surrender in slow motion. If I let it control me instead of fueling me, then I'm worse than useless. I'm a liability)
I clenched my fists slightly, grounding myself.
(And the only way to fix that is...)
An idea came to me, possibly the single, DUMBEST idea that I've ever conceived of in my life.
"I need to talk to the Jackal...interact with him"
I whispered aloud, my voice nearly lost to the wind. The moment the words left me, a chill ran down my spine—not out of regret, but out of something close to exhilaration. The kind you feel standing at the edge of a rooftop, knowing you shouldn't jump but wondering—just wondering—what it might feel like to fall.
(This is nuts! Uttely reckless! It's insane! he others would never agree! Zofia would definitely throw a fit, and the boss?! Gods, the boss would probably lock me in a storage crate and duct-tape it shut if he knew...)
But even that line of reasoning felt distant, like a lifeline I wasn't interested in grabbing.
(Still…I won't get anything done if I cower behind excuses. And it's not like they need to know, not yet anyway...)
I stroked my chin thoughtfully, trying to recall something—anything—that could steel me for the stupidity I was about to commit.
"What was it that Leon used to say?"
I muttered, narrowing my eyes in concentration. The memory came easily, warm and exasperated in my mind.
"Ahem…a scout's job is to deal with fear—confront it, understand it, and help others do the same"
I recited in my best Leon impression, chest puffed out slightly and voice laced with dramatic gravitas. Then I relaxed and gave a short, dry laugh.
"Ha..."
I smiled bitterly, the absurdity of it all finally catching up to me.
"I'm so going to die, aren't I?"
It wasn't despair—just a little gallows humor, a bit of levity to soften the sharp edges of my decision.
(Well...you gain nothing from doing nothing. And I do need to prepare, don't I?)
So I stood there for a while longer, letting the city swirl around me—magic-lit boats drifting across narrow waterways, glowing lanterns reflected in the canals, hawkers yelling over each other in a dozen different dialects—as I quietly pieced together a mental framework.
(What should I say first? How do I approach him without getting gutted? What are his possible responses? Would he brush me off—or worse, take an interest? And if he does…what then?)
I ran through every possibility I could imagine, every scenario from mild curiosity to instant dismemberment, trying to map out a course through what might be the stupidest idea I'd ever had. And yet, even knowing that, I couldn't shake the feeling...
That this might be the only right path forward.
I NEEDED to know the man behind the stories—the figure cloaked in myth, violence, and whispers. It wasn't just a passing curiosity anymore; it had become something visceral, something personal. I needed to understand what made him tick, what fed that suffocating aura of dread he carried like a second skin. I had to uncover the source of that uncanny presence, the thing that made my instincts scream and my breath catch whenever I recalled our brief encounter. Until I did, there would be no peace for me. No sleep, no clarity, just that gnawing, unrelenting sense of not knowing.
Ironically, the very fear the White Jackal instilled in me—cold, raw, and primal—only deepened my burning curiosity. Like standing on the edge of a cliff and staring down into the abyss below. The kind of fear that sharpens rather than dulls; that whispers "find out why this terrifies you" instead of urging you to run.
So I spent the next few hours drifting through the winding canals and vibrant bazaars of Calavera, letting the rhythm of the city soothe my nerves while I silently mapped out my plan of action. I watched spellbound as enchanted gondolas glided silently over rippling waters, their hulls etched with glowing sigils and arcane runes that pulsed softly like beating hearts. Market stalls spilled over with shimmering silks, strange trinkets, and exotic foods laced with unfamiliar spices, while darker alleyways hinted at things less savory—smugglers, hushed transactions, contraband exchanged behind velvet curtains.
Amidst the noise, color, and motion, I tried to center myself. I rehearsed every possibility, every line of dialogue, every potential reaction he might have—from cold indifference to violent rejection. I visualized my approach, my tone, my posture. I ran the entire script over and over in my mind, tweaking details, discarding half-formed ideas, adjusting based on the little I did know of him.
"Phew~ phew~"
And at the same time, I forced myself to breathe—to stay calm. I ate something warm and unremarkable from a street vendor, sipped a bitter herbal tea known for grounding nerves, and watched the sky shift from azure to dusky gold. Because when the time came—when our eyes met again—I couldn't afford to be jittery or scattered. If I faltered even a little, it could be the end of me.
(Ok...if I'm going to do this. I needto be sharp, collected, unshakable...or at least, act like it)
I thought, steeling myself as I finished all of my mental preparations.
A few hours later...
"All payments have been delivered as promised"
The voice that addressed us was grating—pompous and too smooth, laced with that signature undertone of concealed contempt. It belonged, of course, to the same government official who greeted us when we first arrived in Calavera. The smug tilt of his chin and the pinched professionalism in his demeanor hadn't changed. He extended a polished envelope with practiced disinterest, the official seal barely catching the light.
The boss took the payment without blinking, his expression unreadable, though his signature lopsided grin was firmly in place.
"Pleasure doin' business with ya, chief"
He said casually, like we weren't standing in the middle of a bureaucratic hornet's nest wrapped in silk.
The official sneered faintly, clearly annoyed that Edgar hadn't shown an ounce of deference.
"Hmph! Whatever…"
He adjusted his tie in that uptight way people do when they feel something's out of their control.
"..."
Then, after a pause that almost felt rehearsed,he asked:
"Not that I care, but...was this homecoming worth it?"
The disdain in his voice was tired now—less like he had a personal grudge, more like he simply wanted us out of his sight and off his checklist.
"Definitely!"
The boss replied with a shrug, the grin still fixed on his face, but his tone carried a vague sharpness beneath the surface.
"Didn't run into the old Ogre, but one of my other war buddies came to say hello. Sounds like he'll be joinin' us, too"
The official froze for half a second.
"Oh…right...the Jackal"
His voice lowered almost instinctively, as if invoking the name might attract attention.
"Not that it matters"
He continued.
"But just to be clear—I have no idea what his deal is either. Didn't know he was here. The higher-ups just told me to give him a wide berth, and I sure as Gehenna ain't risking my neck to figure out why"
Despite his snobbery, there was a note of sincerity in his words—self-preservation, maybe. Even pompous bastards knew when to respect a loaded gun.
"Right…"
The boss said, eyes narrowing ever so slightly. He didn't fully trust this person's words, but this wasn't the time or place to press the matter.
"Later, Robby"
The boss turned away with an easy wave.
"That's Mister Robert to you! Hmph!"
The official huffed and turned on his heel, but before fully walking off, he muttered just loud enough to be heard:
"Try not to start anything, Edgar…we don't need another war so soon"
The boss' smile vanished.
"On that…we agree"
He replied, his voice lower, grounded with something heavier than before.
With that, we began boarding the train, no fanfare, no delays. It had been agreed that the Jackal would stay isolated in the rearmost car, while the rest of us were free to move throughout the rest of the train.
*REEEEEEEEEEE*
The train horn pierced the air, and with a gentle jolt, we began moving—pulling away from Calavera and heading back in the direction from which we'd come.
"Phew~"
(Okay…it's time)
A short while into the trip, I took a steadying breath. The moment I'd been preparing for had arrived.
I stood up.
"Going somewhere, Fi?"
Leon's voice called out casually.
"Lavatory, gonna take five"
I replied, calm and easy, the lie slipping from my lips like it belonged there.
"Gotcha. Don't take too long"
He nodded, thumbs-upping me like I was just off for a stretch.
"I won't…"
(He doesn't seem suspicious. Good, that's one problem avoided)
I moved swiftly through the corridor, weaving past seats, careful not to draw attention. I kept my eyes low, posture loose. I wasn't sneaking—just moving with purpose, like I had every right to be walking this train.
But I stayed alert. Hyper-aware. Every face, every glance, every shift in the car around me registered in the corner of my vision. I avoided eye contact, especially with the boss. If he so much as caught wind of what I was about to do, this plan would die before it ever left the ground.
Soon, I reached the final car.
The atmosphere changed the closer I got—quieter somehow, like the train itself held its breath.
I paused just outside the heavy metal door, heart beating faster now, the low clack of the train wheels rumbling beneath my boots. I cast a final look behind me.
(Nobody...that's good)
I reached out slowly, fingers brushing the door handle. It felt cool to the touch.
"Here goes nothing..."
There was no turning back.
*Click*
The door opened, and I slipped inside, sealing it shut behind me as I entered the car that housed the most dangerous person I had ever encountered.
The moment I stepped into the final car, both occupants turned toward me almost immediately.
One was a train attendant—young, dressed sharply in the standard uniform, clearly startled by the intrusion but too professional to say anything. The other...
Was the person I was looking for.
He sat in a seat fiddling with something on his table, still cloaked in black, his pale features partially obscured by the elegant mask he wore, only those unmistakable crimson eyes stared out—piercing, sharp.
""...?""
He looked up from his seat, saying nothing. But his gaze alone spoke volumes. Those eyes weren't just watching me—they were evaluating, dissecting, as if trying to decide whether I was a threat, a nuisance, or something in between. I could tell he hadn't expected anyone to enter this space. Least of all me.
(Good...it's better if he wasn't expecting this)
I kept my pace calm, steady. No hesitation. I closed the distance between us with deliberate steps and slid smoothly into the seat across from him—an action that felt normal in any other situation but now felt like I had just placed myself before a predator in its den.
"Hi there...I'm Fiama Iger. Nice to meet you"
I greeted him casually, like we were two strangers sharing a table on a long trip. The words came out light, unforced—but beneath that easy tone, my nerves were taut like drawn wire.
""...???""
He didn't respond—not verbally, at least. His expression didn't shift, but his head tilted slightly, just enough to register puzzlement.