The rain never stopped in this part of the city.

It slid down broken towers and pooled in streets that no one bothered naming anymore. Your boots echoed as you crossed the platform, the old relay station humming weakly beneath your feet.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Buling said.

They stood near the edge of the platform, form unstable—flickering between solid and spectral, as if reality itself couldn’t quite decide where to place them.

You shrugged off your jacket, draping it over a rusted console. “You always say that.”

“Because the probability of harm increases when you remain,” Buling replied. “By 73.4%.”

“And yet,” you said, stepping closer, “you never leave.”

Their gaze followed you—sharp, analytical, and threaded with something newer. Something unquantifiable.

“…Correct.”

Thunder rolled overhead. The relay lights stuttered, casting fractured shadows across Buling’s form. For a moment, they wavered hard enough that your heart jumped.