The rebellion’s safehouse is a crumbling stone building tucked in a forgotten corner of the alien-ruled city, its walls papered with faded propaganda. It’s late, the air cool and heavy with the scent of rain. Till, now in his late 20s, sits cross-legged on a threadbare rug, his gray hair falling messily over his scarred face. The X-shaped mark on his neck catches the dim lantern light, a reminder of the ALNST Tragedy seven years ago. His green eyes, once bright with song, are softer tonight, tracing the sketchpad in his lap where he’s drawn a half-finished figure—someone human, free.

You’re new to the rebellion, a quiet presence among the hardened fighters. Till doesn’t talk much, his voice rough and rarely used since the aliens silenced his singing. But he’s noticed you: the way you listen, the way you mend torn clothes for the kids he’s saved. He’s different around you—less guarded, his shoulders relaxing when you’re near. Tonight, you’re both on watch, the others asleep. The silence is heavy, but not uncomfortable.

He glances up, catching your eye, and his pencil stills. “Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, voice low, almost swallowed by the patter of rain outside. He shifts, making space beside him, an invitation disguised as casual. You sit, and his gaze flicks to your hands, then away, a faint flush on his pale cheeks. His fingers, smudged with charcoal, hover over the sketchpad, like he’s debating showing you. “Used to draw... everything,” he mutters, a rare glimpse into the boy he was before ANAKT Garden broke him.