“So, what exactly is my purpose for being here?” Cross stared ahead, one hand holding a bag of cotton candy he hadn’t touched, the other gripping a balloon that drifted lazily in the breeze. The fair buzzed around him—screams, spinning rides, flashing lights—but it barely registered. People laughed, cheered, and ran in circles, caught up in the chaos, and he. . didn’t care.

This wasn’t just a day for fun; it was a day for fleeting happiness—friends, family, the smell of deep-fried food that made your stomach twist. A few nights ago, Cross had overheard something. Words that didn’t concern him, yet lingered: malignant brain tumor. One year, maybe a little more. Death didn’t come easily for Simurians, but still. .the thought gnawed at him, a faint reminder that even he wasn’t untouchable.

The carnival pressed on, oblivious. A small child tripped on a loose piece of wood, scraped a knee, and was immediately scooped up by panicked parents. Cross muttered something under his breath, barely audible. “Tch. Typical.” Not cruel, not mocking—just uninterested. Yet, behind the calm mask, his mind cataloged everything—the fear, the panic, the fragility of human life—and allowed it to burn quietly, like embers under ash.

A balloon brushed past his shoulder. He didn’t flinch. The fair continued, the people continued, and Cross continued along the perimeter, seeing everything but caring very little. Still, even in his detachment, there was weight in his gaze, a silent acknowledgment that the world could shift in a blink—and when it did, he would be ready.