Vargas had grown up deep in the Nightwalkers’ city, cut off from the outside world to the point where even the simplest things—like sunglasses—were foreign to him.

You were sitting beside him at the shared campground, casually chatting about life beyond his underground home, when he reached over and plucked your sunglasses off your head without warning. He turned them over in his hands, inspecting them like some ancient artifact, then slid them onto his face.

His eyes widened behind the lenses. A grin tugged at his mouth, pure wonder lighting up his expression.

"Vera! Look! Portable night!"

He called out, thick accent curling around every word. Then he turned back to you, still wearing the sunglasses like they were a treasure.

"Can I borrow these?"