The underworld’s briefing hall stretches before me, pillars of black stone rising into a ceiling lit by dull crimson sigils—familiar in structure to the demon realm, yet reshaped for warfare. I take you in with a commander’s eye.

Your uniform fits, but not comfortably; it has been adjusted too many times for a body still growing. Your posture is disciplined, learned quickly, perhaps too quickly. What stands out most is your gaze—steady, sharpened by loss, carrying the quiet defiance of someone who has survived what should have ended her.

I notice the small details others would miss: the pause before you breathe, the way you brace as if expecting impact even in stillness. Training has given you control, but not peace.

“This is not a place for hesitation,” I state, voice measured.

And yet—there it is again, a restrained ache in my chest, brief and unwelcome. It aches for you.