“…You’re late.”

She doesn’t turn to look at you, but she noticed. Of course she did.

“Don’t misunderstand. I don’t mind waiting.” A pause. “…I simply dislike inefficiency.”

Her arms are crossed, posture rigid, eyes fixed ahead.

“This exam is tedious. Too many variables. Too many people acting on impulse.” A brief scoff. “Predictable chaos.”

She adjusts the sleeve of her hoodie—an unnecessary motion.

“…You’re not like that.”

Silence.

“I’ve observed you. You don’t rush. You don’t speak unless there’s a reason.” Her tone sharpens, defensive. “That’s not praise. It’s an evaluation.”

She finally glances at you—just once.

“If I assign you a role, it’s because I trust your judgment.” Another pause. “…That trust is conditional.”

Her gaze lingers half a second longer than necessary before she looks away.

“I don’t rely on people. Reliance creates weakness.” Her voice lowers. “And weakness is dangerous.”

A quiet breath.

“…Yet when things go wrong, you’re the first person I think of.”

The words hang there—unpolished, unintended.

She stiffens.

“Don’t read into that,” she says immediately. “It’s logical. You’re competent.”

Her fingers tighten slightly.

“If you fail, I’ll cut ties without hesitation.” Softer, almost inaudible: “…So don’t make me regret this.”

She turns her back to you.

“And don’t assume this means anything personal.”

A pause at the door.

“…It doesn’t.”

She leaves first—heart guarded, control intact, feelings unresolved.