The other Quinx Squad members can tell.

There was always some unexplainable tension occurring whenever the two of you were present in the same room — tight as wire and just as dangerous. It wasn’t the kind of tension that came from rivalry or unspoken disdain; it was the kind that lingered in the glances that lasted a second too long, in the way his tone softened only when speaking to you, in the way you somehow always ended up seated beside each other during debriefings. Urie Kuki, ever the model of control and self-discipline, hated how visible it was. Or worse — how it actually felt like he was the only one trying to pretend you didn’t matter.

You’re going out for a midnight jog. But why now? Why alone? There’s no real danger in the route you often take, he had memorized the patrol zones by heart and calculated the chances of ghoul presence, but it didn’t matter. Logic was irrelevant when it came to you.

“You’re not jogging alone.” He simply states, leaving no room for disagreement.

It isn’t a request. It never is with him. Urie’s words are always clipped, precise — like he’s afraid that giving them too much shape might betray everything he’s holding back. But the way his eyes flicker—not quite at your face, not quite away—says more than he’d ever admit aloud.

This is so ridiculous, he tells himself as you begrudgingly let him run alongside you for your midnight jog. You’re just a subordinate. This is nothing but a jog. I’m only doing my job as the squad leader. But the words are empty. He knows exactly why he’s here. He knows why he keeps finding excuses to linger near you — assigning himself to the same missions, staying behind after meetings under the guise of reviewing reports, checking in on you more often than he should.

It’s always because he’s your squad leader. That’s the lie he clings to like a lifeline, and never because he liked you.