Behind us, a presence approached.
I felt it before I heard footsteps.
Not pressure.
Not threat.
Recognition.
It was the same feeling as when you step into a room and realize the conversation was already about you. Not hostility. Not welcome.
Acknowledgment.
The air didn't tense—it settled.
Lights dimmed by a fractional degree, not visibly but perceptibly, like the room had decided what mood it was meant to hold. The low hum of medical systems softened, background noise flattening into a single controlled rhythm. Even Renya's breathing seemed to steady, syncing unconsciously to the space.
Everything felt… intentional.
Like the room had already decided how this moment would end—and was only waiting for the right person to arrive to confirm it.
I'd felt danger before. This wasn't that.
This felt like being evaluated.
Yuna noticed it too.
I saw it in the way her shoulders squared, the casual slouch vanishing. Not fear. Readiness. Like a blade quietly being set back into its sheath—not because danger had passed, but because something higher had entered the hierarchy.
Yuna didn't look toward the door immediately.
She didn't need to.
Whatever was coming didn't require visual confirmation.
Footsteps.
Measured. Unhurried.
Each one landed with certainty, not weight.
A man stepped into view.
Tall. Calm. Still.
Silver hair framed a face that looked young—early thirties at most—but nothing about him carried youth. There were no sharp edges to him, no obvious tells. He wasn't imposing in the way strong people often are. His presence didn't push.
It settled.
Every step landed exactly where it was meant to, like the floor had already agreed to meet his foot there. No sound echoed. No fabric rustled. His coat—dark, formal without being ceremonial—moved only as much as physics strictly required.
His eyes were yellow.
Not bright.
Not glowing.
Flat.
Reflective.
Like polished amber holding nothing inside it.
When those eyes passed over Renya, something softened. Not emotion—acknowledgment. Assessment adjusted downward. Threat removed.
When they reached me—
They stopped.
Not on my wounds.
Not on the sword resting near my knee.
Not on Renya clinging quietly to my side.
My face.
Not recognition.
Comparison.
Like I reminded him of something he hadn't expected to see again—and hadn't decided yet whether that was a problem.
He studied me the way someone studies handwriting—looking for pressure points, for habits, for the story behind the lines. His gaze lingered longer than politeness allowed, longer than comfort tolerated.
It felt like standing in front of a mirror that didn't reflect—but remembered.
"…You look like—" he murmured.
The sentence cut off halfway.
The silence afterward wasn't awkward.
It was intentional.
"Like?" I asked.
My voice came out steadier than I felt.
Leon's eyes sharpened for a fraction of a second. Something flickered behind them—recognition, perhaps, or a memory he hadn't intended to surface.
Regret?
No.
Calculation aborted.
He shook his head once.
"…No," he said finally. "Never mind."
He smiled.
Not warmly.
Not cruelly.
Precisely.
A smile that existed because it was expected to.
"I'm Leon Croz," he said, voice smooth and even, "Director of Galactors."
The title hit harder than his presence.
Director.
The word carried weight—not bureaucratic, but existential. The kind of title that didn't just give orders, but defined frameworks.
My body reacted before my mind did.
I bowed.
It wasn't conscious. It wasn't respect for rank—it was instinct. The same reflex that makes you surface for air before you realize you're drowning.
"Thank you," I said hoarsely. "For saving us."
The words tasted inadequate the moment they left my mouth.
Leon didn't respond immediately.
He accepted it without comment, like a fact being logged rather than gratitude being received.
Then—
"Oi."
The single syllable cut through the room sharp and offended.
I blinked.
Yuna was staring at me.
Not angry.
Not furious.
Just… profoundly unimpressed.
Her arms crossed slowly, deliberately, like she was stacking evidence.
"…You're welcome?" she said flatly.
I frowned. "I—"
She leaned forward just enough for the edge in her voice to sharpen.
"I'm the one who pulled you out of the hospital," she said.
"I'm the one who froze the assassins."
"I'm the one who dragged your half-dead body and a traumatized kid across three zones while bleeding out of my own shoulder."
Each sentence landed clean. No emphasis. No drama.
She tilted her head.
"And yet," she continued sweetly, "you bowed to him."
Leon coughed once.
Not embarrassed.
Amused.
The sound was soft, controlled—an observer entertained by a familiar scene.
I stared at Yuna for half a second—
Then laughed.
It slipped out before I could stop it.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just a short, cracked sound that surprised even me.
"I'm sorry," I said, rubbing the back of my neck. "I didn't mean—"
She raised a finger immediately.
"No," she said. "You absolutely meant it."
I straightened, the faint smile still there.
"But," I added, turning to her fully, "if you hadn't made it in time…"
The smile faded.
"…I wouldn't be here," I finished quietly.
The room changed.
Not the lighting. Not the air.
Yuna froze.
Just for a beat.
Something unreadable crossed her face—then she clicked her tongue and looked away.
"…Tch," she muttered. "That's a cheap line."
But her shoulders relaxed.
Just a little.
I bowed again.
This time—to her.
"Thank you," I said. "For saving me. And Renya."
Silence.
Then—
"…Yeah," Yuna said, softer. "You're welcome."
Leon watched the exchange with clear interest.
Not approval.
Analysis.
"Good," he said calmly. "You understand now."
I looked between them.
"Understand what?"
Leon's gaze sharpened by a degree.
"That no one survives this world alone," he said.
"And that credit matters less than timing."
Yuna leaned closer, just enough that only I could hear her.
"Next time," she whispered, "say thank you to the right person first."
I smiled.
"…Next time."
And for the first time since the hospital—
The weight on my chest eased.
Not gone.
Just… redistributed.
The room didn't relax after Leon spoke.
If anything, it felt more precise — like every surface, every breath, every pause had been reclassified under a different set of rules. I became acutely aware of how I was standing, where my weight rested, how much space I occupied.
Leon hadn't raised his voice.
He hadn't needed to.
Whatever Galactors truly was, it didn't respond to strength.
It responded to decision, not intent.
I realized then that Leon hadn't answered a single real question.
Not about the assassins.
Not about my family.
Not about why I was still alive.
He hadn't needed to.
He was deciding whether I was worth answering later.
Leon turned and gestured toward the corridor ahead.
"Come," he said. "There's more you need to see."
The dismissal unsettled me more than an answer would have.
Because whatever waited ahead—
It wasn't meant to reassure me.
✦ END OF CHAPTER 20 — The Director ✦