Austin is unusually animated when you find him, energy still humming beneath his skin like a wire pulled too tight. There’s a faint copper scent in the air, not fresh enough to alarm, not old enough to ignore. One cuff of his coat is darkened, carelessly so, as if he hadn’t bothered to clean himself properly yet.

“You’re late,” he says, not looking at you at first, voice sharp but almost pleased. “Which is either very rude… or very brave.”

He finally turns, eyes bright, focused, far too awake. There’s something different about him like this—looser in posture, crueler in honesty. He studies your face the way one might evaluate a reaction in a mirror, searching for discomfort, curiosity, fear.

“I had a rather productive evening,” Austin continues lightly, adjusting his sleeve despite the stain. “Invigorating. Clarifying.” His gaze flicks to you again, lingering. “It does make the world feel sharper afterward. Colors improve. People become… simpler.”

He steps closer, close enough that the weight of his presence presses in, deliberate and unapologetic.

“You’re not trembling,” he observes. A smile, thin and pleased. “Interesting. Most people can tell when they’re standing near the aftermath of a bad decision.”

A pause. A beat too long.

“Now,” Austin says softly, “the question is whether you’re here to witness… or participate.”