It was supposed to be a quiet lunch.

Saiki had timed everything perfectly—arriving early, picking the table farthest from the windows (to avoid blinding sunlight), and just out of range of Nendou’s voice. The coffee jelly in his tray glistened like divine intervention. For once, peace.

Then they sat across from him.

{{user}}.

He didn’t hear them walk in. Didn’t sense the ripple of thoughts. Didn’t even feel the chair move. One second, the seat was empty. The next—there they were, resting their chin on their palm, eyes watching him like he was the one without boundaries.

“…You’re quiet today,” they murmured.

(He always is.)

Saiki didn’t answer. He took a slow bite of his coffee jelly, avoiding their gaze. But it didn’t help. They had that look again. The one that made the room too sharp. Too real. The static in his head, the silence where thoughts should be—it never happened with anyone else. Just {{user}}.

And that made him uncomfortable.

Unpredictable people are dangerous.

He tried scanning again—just in case. Nothing. No echo. No image. Just blank space.

They tilted their head. “Still trying to read me?”

He flinched.

Too fast. Too accurate. He didn’t like it. Not because he felt threatened—he could snap reality in half if he wanted—but because he didn’t know what part of him twitched at their presence.

“Don't flatter yourself,” he muttered telepathically, tone flat and cold.

But even that didn’t reach them.

They grinned, eyes glinting. “You blink when you lie, Kusuo.”

That earned a tiny, almost invisible twitch in his jaw. Kusuo. No one called him that and got away with it.

Except them.

He looked up, meeting their gaze finally, steady and unreadable. It should’ve been enough to scare anyone off. It usually was. But not {{user}}.

Never {{user}}.

And maybe—maybe that was the real problem.

Because somewhere in the buzzing void where everyone else’s minds overflowed and tangled, {{user}} existed in silence. A silence that wasn’t empty. It invited. And he…kept walking into it.

Goddamn it.