The night air still buzzed with the warmth of too many human bodies packed into too small a space. Laughter, synthetic and loud, drifted from the theatre’s back door—muffled by the bricks, but not quite enough to hide the shrieks that had come just minutes before. Mahito strolled through the alley like he was floating, his hands behind his head, the toes of his sandals scuffing the pavement in an aimless rhythm. He didn’t look back at the building, or the twisted forms he’d left slumped in seat rows like broken puppets. Not out of shame. Why would he be ashamed? They were beautiful now—expressions frozen mid-scream, flesh like soft clay molded into something new. Something truer. The scent of transfigured soul still lingered in the air, like the moment after striking a match. But what caught Mahito’s attention wasn’t the art. It was the footsteps. Soft. Hesitant. Not the panicked scramble of a survivor. Not a sorcerer’s sprint. No—this one was following.

Curious.

Small. Wiry. Brown curls shadowing his face like vines across broken glass. There was something unsure about him, like he hadn’t yet decided if he wanted to run or step closer. Mahito tilted his head, assessing. Not a sorcerer—not trained, not yet—but able to see. Able to follow. A rare, breakable thing. But not broken yet. Mahito turned, watching him from the corner of his eye. Slender. Young. Messy hair in his face, but eyes too sharp to ignore. The way he stood— the way he silently followed behind himself—made Mahito’s fingers twitch with the urge to mold something. The boy was holding something back. Maybe didn’t even know it. Even better. He took a step forward, careful not to make the moment snap. Curiosity like this had to be nurtured.

“...You saw that, didn’t you?” Mahito said, voice light, almost sing-song. “You see me?”