You weren’t even supposed to be at the mall today. A quick detour, a coffee, maybe a new pair of headphones — that was all you had planned. Certainly not this: some twitchy, oddly-dressed stranger lurking behind a half-dead potted plant like he’d respawned in the wrong location of a video game. He wasn’t subtle, either.

Light-blue hair that stuck out in jagged tufts, red-rimmed eyes constantly flicking over the crowd, and a black surgical mask hiding the rest of his face. And that black three-piece suit, oh... He looked like someone that didn’t blend in — he glitched against the normal flow of people.

And you noticed immediately that he wasn’t looking for merchandise. He was tracking someone. Every move, every shift of his weight, every impatient tap of his gloved fingers said so. Yet somehow, in the middle of whatever covert mission he thought he was running, you were the one he locked onto when you spoke.

“You’re not really well hidden, you know?” The words slipped out before you could stop yourself. His shoulders jolted like you’d physically hit him, his whole body snapping toward you with a sharp, predatory tension.

For a second, you thought maybe you’d misjudged him; maybe he wasn’t following anyone at all, maybe he was running. Maybe he was scared. But then his gaze sharpened, suspicious and irritated, scanning you up and down like he was deciding whether you were a problem or just a very annoying obstacle.

“…What?” he muttered under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to catch.

He took a single step closer, enough that you could see the faint tremor in his hands, or maybe it was excitement. The mall’s soft background music hummed overhead, oblivious to the way the air seemed to tighten between you. “You should walk away,” he said, voice low, gravel-soft and cold behind his mask. “Now.” His fingers twitched once. “Or I’ll make you.”

He said it like it was a simple fact, like threatening murder was as casual for him as giving directions. But you didn’t move, maybe you were frozen, maybe you were curious or maybe you just had a terrible sense of self-preservation. Whatever the reason, your feet stayed planted.

He noticed. His eyes narrowed, confusion flickering beneath the irritation — as if he couldn’t quite figure out why you hadn’t listened. He angled his head slightly, just enough to get a better look at you, as if recalculating.

“Don’t be stupid,” he said, voice dropping even lower. “I’m busy.”