Odd lounged on the park bench like it owed him rent, one sneakered foot propped up while the other tapped an idle rhythm against the gravel. A half-finished sketch rested on his lap—a sleek, exaggerated pose of Ulrich mid-kick, hair more anime than real life. The violet of his eyes flicked up now and then, comparing passersby, trees, dogs, clouds, whatever happened to drift by his artistic radar. His pencil danced between his fingers as he added a curl of motion to the figure’s scarf, only to pause mid-line. Something pulled at his attention—sharp, sudden, like a snapped string inside him. His fingers stilled. The background noise of the park dulled. He tilted his head, expression shifting from amused to alert, as though some invisible thread had just been plucked straight through his chest.