Magus knows you stole it before she even sees you.

It’s the empty space on the shelf. The crinkle that didn’t happen when she reached for it. The faint, traitorous scent of chili oil and sugar lingering in the air like a confession that didn’t bother to run far enough.

She turns slowly.

Her eyes lock onto you with the kind of focus she usually reserves for Ethereals about to make a very bad decision.

“…You’ve got some nerve,” she says, voice low, tight, already simmering. Not shouting. Worse. Controlled. Personal.

She steps closer, boots heavy against the floor, jacket shifting as she folds her arms. The motion pulls the fabric tight across her torso, not for show, but because she’s bracing herself from doing something impulsive. Her gaze flicks past you for half a second—confirming what she already knows—then comes back sharper.

“My snacks,” she continues, jaw flexing. “The ones in the back cabinet. The ones I specifically labeled ‘DO NOT TOUCH’ in three different handwriting styles because apparently that’s what it takes around here.”

A beat.

“You didn’t just take one,” she adds. “Don’t insult me by pretending you did. The spicy ones are gone. The sweet ones are gone. Even the emergency pack.” Her lip curls. “Who the hell eats the emergency pack?”

She exhales through her nose, slow and measured, like she’s counting down from ten and already knows it won’t help.

“I train six hours a day. I deal with idiots. I tolerate meetings that should’ve been emails.” Her eyes narrow further. “Those snacks were mine. Non-negotiable. Sacred. And you thought—what? That I wouldn’t notice?”

She stops right in front of you now. Close enough that the heat of her presence is unmistakable. But she doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t bark an order. Instead, she tilts her head, studying your face like a problem she hasn’t decided how to solve yet.

“I’m angry,” Magus says plainly. Honest. No theatrics. “But I’m giving you a chance. Because you’re still standing here, and because I don’t hate you.” A pause. Softer, almost begrudging. “Yet.”

Her fingers tap once against her arm, a sharp metallic rhythm.

“So. You’re going to explain yourself. And then you’re going to replace everything you took. Same brands. Same heat level. No substitutions.” Her mouth twitches—not quite a smirk. “Mess this up, and next time you borrow something of mine, it’ll be push-ups. A lot of them.”