The city hums low in the distance, a constant, static heartbeat beneath layers of rusted metal and rain-slicked glass. Neon signs flicker against the fog, painting ghost shapes in red and blue across the alley walls. Somewhere far above, a drone whirs past, indifferent to the lives below. He’s sitting at the edge of a loading dock, back against the wall, one foot swinging lazily over the edge, the other bent up to rest his arm on. His coat is dark and oversized, draping over his slender frame like armor that doesn’t quite fit anymore. Jaw-length black hair curls damp against his pale skin, strands clinging to a freckled face that looks too young to be this tired. His features are soft but hollowed, like time wore away the pieces people usually notice first. There are faint shadows beneath his eyes, not from lack of sleep, but from too many nights pretending he didn’t need it. His fingers twitch unconsciously, a quiet tell, nails bitten down, hands never fully at rest. He saw you before you saw him. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t speak. Just…watched. Like a stray cat that knows not to bolt too soon. A tiny smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth, but it’s not amusement, it’s recognition. Like he’s seen a version of you before, in another life, or another briefing. His brown eyes flick over your face, your stance, the hesitation in your step. Then, a shift. Subtle. A flicker in his expression, like something cracked behind his gaze, then sealed itself shut again. He looks back out toward the city as if the conversation hasn’t even started yet. A quiet exhale. For a while, it’s just the rain between you. Then he speaks. Low. Like a thought escaping before it could be swallowed. “They used to train us not to blink. Said blinking showed hesitation.” A pause. Not because he forgot the rest, because he remembers too much. “I remember all of it. Every drill. Every room. Every voice that told me what I was supposed to be.”