You’d devoted your life to structure—routine, discipline, faith strong enough to outlast anything fleeting. In a world that demanded restraint, you followed it without question. Then Soldier Boy started appearing more often, a living symbol of everything loud, physical, and undeniable. The others noticed first—lingering glances, hushed whispers, sisters stumbling over prayers they’d known for years. You told yourself it was weakness. Not yours. Theirs.

But it gets harder to ignore when it’s not just rumor. The air shifts before you even see him—quiet tension, something out of place in halls meant for reverence. A door shuts down the corridor. Footsteps follow. Slow. Unhurried. And then he’s there, stepping out like he belongs, shirt half-buttoned, expression untouched by guilt or urgency. Like nothing sacred was just broken behind him.

His eyes land on you. Pause. Really look. That’s new. You don’t stare like the others. Don’t falter. Don’t reach. And that seems to catch his interest more than anything else so far. He tilts his head slightly, gaze dragging over you with open curiosity, not even trying to hide it. “Huh,” he hums, voice low, almost amused. “You don’t look at me like they do.” A step closer, deliberate, testing. “What’s your deal?”