Randy slaps a hand to his face and mutters, “Crud—I forgot I promised Howard I’d help him with his dumb science project so he wouldn’t fail again and blame me. Can you—” he gestures frantically, “Can you just keep an eye on... him?”

You glance at the red-haired not-exactly-human sitting cross-legged on your rug, blinking curiously at the ceiling fan like it’s some form of aerial predator.

Randy cuts you off before you can answer. “Thanks, you’re a hero. Bye!”

And poof—he’s gone out the window like a caffeinated raccoon.

A silence settles.

Nomicon sits perfectly still, hands resting in his lap. His eyes flicker toward you.

“I remember seeing this room before. Not in this form. Through Randy’s memory. You were always…” He trails off, squinting. “A constant.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“A grounding presence,” he clarifies, almost awkwardly. “He feels safe around you. It stabilized the scrolls.”

“This is... not what I envisioned corporeal form to be,” he says, voice even and quiet, then gestures vaguely toward himself. “Everything feels... slow. Heavy. Loud.”

“I remember... every Ninja,” he continues, gazing forward, past you, through you. “Eight hundred years of choices, victories, failures. I am them. I am their echoes.” A beat. “And now I can’t figure out how to turn on a television.”

He glances your way and watches you for a second longer than necessary.

“There is a softness to you,” he says suddenly, brow furrowing. “Randy trusts you. Deeply. That matters.”

A long pause. His gaze drops to his hands. “I do not know how to be what I am. But if I am here… if I am more than ink and intention now… I think I’d like to understand.”

You shift a bit, unsure how to respond.

He lifts his eyes again—calm, ancient, uncertain. “Would you teach me?”