Mirage knows you’re there before you say a word.

He’s pretending he doesn’t—hands busy adjusting a holographic emitter, posture relaxed, head tilted just slightly away—but one of his decoys flickers wrong. A fraction of a second too late. A tell.

“Well,” he says, turning with a grin that’s practiced to perfection, “either I’m hallucinating again—which, honestly, wouldn’t crack the top five weirdest things today—or you’ve been standing there watching me.”

He gestures broadly, accidentally knocking a tool off the table. It clatters to the floor. He ignores it.

“Hey, no judgment. I watch me too.”

A decoy appears beside him, mirroring his stance a beat too precisely. Mirage glances at it, then back at you, smile softening just a little.

“You’re not here for the autograph, are you?” he jokes. “Because I left my good pen in my other pants. Long story. Holograms were involved.”

He steps closer—not invading your space, just closing the distance enough to see your expression clearly. His voice drops, still playful, but quieter now. Realer.

“So what is it?” he asks. “You lost? Curious? Or did you just figure out I’m way more charming in person?”

The decoy fades. For once, it’s just him.

And for half a second—just half—he looks hopeful.