The city did not like uncertainty.
Traffic lights stalled for half a second longer than normal. Surveillance charms misaligned. A contract registrar on the east side crashed and rebooted twice without explanation. None of it was dramatic enough for humans to notice—but Night Protocol noticed everything.
Especially when the system hesitated.
Yasha stood at the edge of District Seven, watching the skyline bleed from violet into steel-grey as morning approached. Dawn blurred the boundary between worlds, thinning magic, dulling instincts.
That was when mistakes happened.
"Observation window initiated," a calm voice said in his earpiece.
Kaguya's projection shimmered beside him, translucent and composed. Data streamed behind her like falling snow.
"Time limit?" Yasha asked.
"Indefinite," she replied. "Until the anomaly resolves. Or escalates."
He frowned. "That's not a time limit."
"It is," she said gently. "Just not one you can measure."
They both knew what she meant.
Crimson Bloom's Heartbearer had disrupted a binding sigil without force, without backlash, without a contract. That alone had pushed the incident into restricted classification. Voluntary cooperation had kept it from becoming a crackdown.
For now.
"You're close to her," Kaguya continued. "Closer than anyone else has been."
Yasha didn't respond.
"I need your account," she said. "Not the report. The truth."
He hesitated, then spoke carefully. "She didn't resist the sigil. She… displaced it. Like the system recognized her presence and recalibrated."
Kaguya's expression shifted—interest sharpened by concern. "That's consistent with the readings."
"Then explain it," Yasha said. "Because the law doesn't."
Kaguya looked away. "Some things predate the law."
The channel went silent.
---
Crimson Bloom relocated before sunrise.
They always did.
Momo watched the sanctuary dissolve around her—wards folding inward, spaces collapsing into nothing as if they'd never existed. To an outsider, it would have looked like an abandoned mall blinking out of focus.
To her, it felt like exhaling after holding her breath too long.
"Don't wander," Shuten called lazily, slinging an arm around a crate. "This place bites."
Shuten Doji was already drinking again, eyes sharp despite the casual posture. "Protocol boy might be polite now, but that won't last."
Momo smiled faintly. "He kept his word."
"So far," Shuten agreed. "Night Protocol always does. Until it doesn't."
Nearby, Yuki Onna helped a frightened Seed pack their belongings, murmuring reassurance in a voice barely louder than the hum of residual magic. Higanbana watched them with an unreadable smile.
"He's coming," Higanbana said suddenly.
Momo felt it a heartbeat later.
The air tightened.
Yasha emerged from the shadow of a broken stairwell, movements precise, controlled. No weapon drawn. No sigil active.
Just presence.
Yasha stopped three steps away from Momo, maintaining careful distance.
"You're relocating," he observed.
"Yes," Momo replied calmly. "We always do."
"You didn't notify Night Protocol."
"We're not required to," she said. "That was part of the agreement."
It was.
Yasha inclined his head slightly. "I'm not here to interfere."
Ibaraki scoffed from behind her. Ibaraki Doji folded his arms. "That's new."
"I'm here to observe," Yasha continued. "Starting now."
Shuten laughed outright. "Oh, I like this. He's going to follow us around?"
Momo glanced at Yasha. "Is that what this is?"
"Yes."
She studied him—not as an enforcer, not as a threat, but as something more complicated. Someone standing between duty and doubt.
"Then you'll see everything," she said. "The good and the bad."
"That's the point," Yasha replied.
They moved together.
Not side by side. Not touching. But aligned by necessity.
---
The incident happened at noon.
A minor one. The kind Night Protocol usually handled quietly.
An unregistered spirit lashed out in a residential block—panic, confusion, a surge of unstable power. Civilians screamed. Phones came out. Someone started recording.
Yasha reacted instantly.
"Stay back," he ordered, stepping forward as the spirit manifested in a violent shimmer of light and claws.
The sigil formed in his palm, crisp and absolute.
Then Momo moved.
She didn't shout. Didn't raise her voice.
She simply placed her hand over his wrist.
The sigil destabilized.
Yasha froze.
Every instinct screamed violation. Interference. Breach.
But there was no pain. No backlash.
Only warmth. Steady. Intentional.
"Wait," Momo said softly. "It's afraid."
The spirit shrieked, power flaring erratically.
Yasha's jaw tightened. "Fear does not excuse harm."
"No," Momo agreed. "But understanding prevents it."
She stepped past him, hands glowing faintly, not with force—but invitation.
The spirit hesitated.
Then collapsed into itself, dissolving into harmless motes of light.
The crowd stared.
Phones kept recording.
Yasha lowered his hand slowly, pulse hammering.
This time, the system didn't resist.
It adapted.
He turned to Momo. "You can't keep doing that."
She met his gaze evenly. "I will."
"That draws attention."
"So does violence."
They stood there, surrounded by murmurs and questions and the fragile silence that followed disaster narrowly avoided.
In the distance, sirens wailed—human authorities responding late, as always.
Yasha spoke quietly. "Night Protocol will respond."
"I know," Momo said. "That's why you're here."
"For now," he corrected.
She smiled—not triumphant. Determined.
"That's enough."
Something shifted again.
Not just in the city.
In him.
Yasha activated his comm.
"Incident resolved," he reported. "No enforcement required."
A pause.
Then Kaguya's voice, carefully neutral. "Understood."
The call ended.
Around them, life resumed—shaken, but intact.
Momo turned away first, tending to shaken civilians, grounding them with warmth and calm.
Yasha watched her work, the ease with which fear dissolved in her presence.
This was not rebellion.
It was something far more dangerous.
It worked.
And Night Protocol had no law for that.,