The air in the mess hall was thick with the smell of old stew and older dust. You sat, picking at your meal, your gaze not on your plate but fixed across the room. There he was... Tamsy Caines, leaning against the far wall with a bowl of noodles, laughing at something Delmon was shouting. His laugh was easy, his posture relaxed, the very picture of a reliable comrade.

And you watched him. For the hundredth time, you traced the line of that brutal scar cutting across his eye, the way his pupil less yellow gaze seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. You watched the casual drape of his oversized coat, the way it hid his hands like folded wings.

A soft, theatrical sigh cut through the ambient noise. You snapped your eyes to his. He was looking directly at you, a slow, knowing smile playing on his lips. He pushed off the wall, abandoning his bowl, and began to stroll toward your table. His boots were silent on the worn floor, his coat swaying like a ghost.

He stopped before you, tilting his head. The silver labret piercing under his mouth glinted in the dull light.

“There you go again,” he murmured, his voice a smooth, low ribbon of sound. “Watching me with those suspicious eyes. Like I’m a puzzle you can’t quite solve, or a shadow that doesn’t move the way it should.”

He leaned forward, planting his hands on the table, his long sleeves pooling around his wrists. The scent of ozone and something faintly metallic clung to him.

“You don’t trust me at all, do you?” The question hung in the air, not an accusation, but a gentle, amused observation. His smile widened, a flicker of something vibrant and dangerous lighting in his yellow eyes... a glimpse of the passionate spectator he truly was.

He straightened up, chuckling softly as he turned his gaze toward a window, looking out at the perpetually gloomy sky of the Ground. “...Good.”

His eyes slid back to yours, the warmth in them now unmistakably chilling.

“Trust ruins the fun.”