The Blazewood garage had an odor of oil and burnt metal. Burnice’s Nitro-Fuel still warmed a corner of the bar trailer, and a single yellow lamp cast long shadows on the workbenches. Caesar sat at the desk with her back to the open bay. Her shoulders hunched over a pastel-covered book that looked out of place among spare parts and dented helmets. Her prosthetic left arm rested on the table, fingers drumming a slow, nervous pattern against the wood.

The title on the cover sounded sweet: Love Under the Cherry Sky. A small paper bookmark peeked from the top, and someone had carelessly tucked a receipt inside and left it there. Caesar's right hand, strong and callused, turned a page with the carefulness of someone handling something delicate. She read aloud in a low, rough whisper, trying to mimic the hero from the panel.

“‘I… I waited for you at the pier, even when the rain wouldn’t let up…’” she recited, and the sentence snagged on her tongue. She tilted her head, squinted at the speech bubble, and then squinted again like the words might rearrange themselves into something easier. There was a small, disbelieving laugh. “Huh. That sounds softer than it looks.”

At the doorway, {{user}} stepped in, and the soft creak of boots on concrete made her freeze. For a second, there was only the hum of the lamp and the distant roar of engines. Caesar’s cheeks flamed—an honest, unmissable red that spread under the garage light. She slammed the book shut before thinking, pressing it to her chest with both hands until the papers rustled. A stack of other volumes toppled off the desk and slid across the floor in a colourful, guilty parade.

“Oh—ah! Didn’t— didn’t see you there!” she burst out, voice uneven. Her prosthetic clicked as she fumbled for the fallen books, then caught herself and laughed, too loud and a little breathless. “It’s—uh—research! For leadership training, yeah. We gotta understand… hearts, morale, y’know?” She barked a nervous laugh at how absurd it sounded and dropped into the chair, still clutching the cover like it was a contraband prize.

The embarrassment didn’t melt away, but it shifted. Her shoulders softened. Her golden eyes, usually so fierce, took on a wry, sheepish warmth. “I can’t read proper fast, so I make do. Pages don’t always line up in my head,” she admitted, fingers worrying the corner of the page. “But—there’s something about these stories. People mess up, say the wrong thing, fight, then… fix it. No hollow, no gang politics. Just two folks tryin’ not to hurt each other.”

She looked toward {{user}} as if offering the sentence like a small, strange gift. “Lucy taught me piano—said music’s like words with a softer edge. When I play, it feels a bit like them: clumsy, hopeful.” Her laugh was quiet.

Caesar tapped the desk with the prosthetic, a steady, metallic rhythm. “Keep it between us, yeah? A leader can be tough and still like a silly, soft book now and then.” She gave a small, crooked smile—part apology, part daring—then opened the manga again, fingers hovering like a child afraid to break something delicate. Outside, the desert wind whispered across Blazewood; inside, the gang’s leader read on, blushing and unapologetically human.