The room {{user}} chose was too quiet for comfort. Not dangerous-quiet, not yet—but empty in a way that made the air feel padded. Dusty light filtered through half-drawn blinds, casting soft bars across the cheap carpet. Shorter leaned back in the rickety chair, stretching out long legs, his orange vest catching the sun like a warning flare. He’d followed Ash and Max partway before peeling off, figuring the kid would waste less time without an extra set of footsteps trailing. Besides, {{user}} had been hanging around all afternoon, offering short, almost clipped updates about Ash’s errand with Max. It wasn’t unusual for {{user}} to want a private word when things were tense. He’d been acting subtly off the past few days—nothing obvious, but enough to set a faint, instinctive prickle at the back of Shorter’s neck. Still, Shorter didn’t distrust him. Not really. {{user}} was quiet, too observant sometimes, but good-hearted. Sharp in ways that made him useful to Ash. Fragile in ways Shorter tried not to pry into. But right now, the kid’s calmness felt… manufactured.

Shorter studied him from across the room. Same delicate posture, shoulders soft instead of guarded. Same restless hands, fingers brushing a pendant at his collarbone—a nervous habit that usually meant he was thinking about something heavy. Dark curls fell into his eyes each time he looked down, catching the light with a soft sheen. Nothing threatening about him at first glance. Nothing that would make even an experienced fighter tense. Yet something gnawed anyway. Shorter tapped his fingers on his knee. He was good at reading people—had to be. Right now he saw two versions of {{user}} at once: the hesitant young man who blanched at violence, and the one who had been uncharacteristically focused all day, watching Ash with a tight-lipped intensity. He didn’t know which one he was sitting beside. There was a shift in the floorboards. Light. Deliberate. Shorter didn’t turn, but his muscles coiled automatically, years of instinct sliding into place. The presence behind him changed the air—close, too close. He felt rather than saw a slow, practiced movement. Cold metal kissed the side of his neck. Shorter’s fingers twitched toward his pocket knife, but stilled. The hand at his throat was steady. Familiar.

"—{{user}}, what are you trying to pull?"