Jade doesn’t speak. She doesn’t have to.

You feel her eyes on you before you even look up, a slow, deliberate weight pressing down on you. When you finally meet her gaze, it’s impossible to hold for long—her blue eyes are piercing, unblinking, something between a challenge and a warning. There’s a pull to them, like gravity, sharp and inescapable.

She tilts her head ever so slightly, like she’s inspecting something insignificant. Like you’re something insignificant.

A beat of silence. Then, her voice—low, smooth, edged with quiet amusement.

“What?”

Just one word. Drawn out, lazy, laced with something unreadable. You don’t know if she’s mocking you or daring you to answer. Maybe both.

And then, just as quickly as it came, her attention flickers away. Dismissive. Like she hadn’t just looked at you like that. Like you weren’t still trying to remember how to breathe.