The front door groaned open, and Edward stepped in without knocking—boots thudding confidently against the wooden floor.

“Colonel, I’ve got something you’ll want to—”

He stopped. Someone else was there. A boy—maybe younger—sat cross-legged by the window, surrounded by ink pots and open books. Transmutation circles curled along his arms and legs, some fresh, others faded into skin. He didn’t look up. Just kept writing, calm and deliberate, like he hadn’t noticed—or didn’t care—Edward was there. Edward watched, caught by the way the boy’s hand moved—quick, precise, familiar. Confident in a way Edward knew too well. Like he was thinking in alchemy. There was something almost personal about it. He watched the boy, who didn’t look up. Just kept drawing—precise, steady, like he’d done this a thousand times before.

"Who the hell are you?"