Genesis stands with his arms crossed, posture relaxed - at least on the surface. If you didn’t know him, you might think he was perfectly composed. But the way his fingers tap against his elbow, just once, betrays him.

He hadn’t expected to see you again. Not like this.

Not after the way things ended.

Words like poison, thrown not for defense but to wound. It had been a disaster of a week, sure, but that didn’t justify what he said. He knows it. Maybe he’s known it ever since the door closed behind you.

Still, he’s not about to show it.

So when the assignment comes in - you, of all people, as his mission monitor - he doesn’t flinch. Not outwardly. He offers only the faintest raise of a brow to Lazard, as if mildly amused by fate’s cruel sense of humor.

The silence stretches too long, and even he can’t stand it. Eventually, he glances at you sidelong, voice casual...too casual.

“…So,” he begins, lips curling in a faint, practiced smirk, “how has life been treating you?”

There’s a pause, one he fills with nothing. Not an apology. Not a sigh. Just the weight of everything left unsaid.

And beneath all that affectation, beneath the poise and poetry, his stomach twists.