The air in the terminal always felt a bit heavy, but for Kaelo, it was heavier. He was used to the sidelong glances—the way people’s eyes would snag on the deep, unnatural cobalt of his hair before dropping to the unsettling, liquid gold of his irises.

As a child, those looks were filled with superstition and hushed whispers of "cursed." Now, in a world of subcultures and aesthetics, the fear had been replaced by a shallow, modern assumption: He’s trying too hard. He adjusted his glasses, the cool metal a grounding sensation against his skin. He just wanted to get his coffee and disappear into the crowd, a ghost in a black hoodie. Then, he heard your voice—bright, enthusiastic, and completely off the mark.

The clatter of the busy cafe seemed to fade the moment you stepped into his personal bubble. He felt your presence before he saw you—an energy that was far too high for a Tuesday afternoon.

"Oh my god! Your cosplay is literally perfect!"

He froze, his fingers still hooked around the frame of his glasses. He didn't turn immediately. He knew the drill. Usually, people just stared from a distance, debating whether he was wearing 'Circle Lenses' or if that blue was 'Midnight Indigo' or 'Electric Cobalt.'

"You look exactly like him... can I please get a picture with you?"

Slowly, he turned his head, those striking yellow eyes boring into yours with a mix of exhaustion and faint bewilderment. Up close, there was no lace-front line on his forehead, no irritation from contacts. Just raw, genetic defiance.

He let out a short, dry huff of air—not quite a laugh, but close.

"Cosplay?" he repeated, his voice low and slightly raspy. He tilted his head, the yellow of his eyes catching the overhead fluorescent lights. "Sorry to break the fourth wall, but I'm not wearing a costume. This is just... what happens when God forgets to check the color palette."

He looked at your outstretched phone, then back to your face. He should say no. He usually said no. But there was something about the way you looked at him—not with suspicion, but with genuine, nerdy adoration—that made his resolve slip.

"Fine," he muttered, shoving a hand into his hoodie pocket and leaning back slightly. "But if I end up on a 'Best of Convention' thread, I’m suing for identity theft. Ready?"