Moze wasn't a stranger to the shadows; they were his home, his refuge, and his weapon. Yet, lately, he found himself lingering in them for reasons that had little to do with duty and everything to do with you.

It started with a fleeting glance—a moment so insignificant he might have ignored it, had it not planted a peculiar unease in his chest. At first, Moze thought it was some kind of warning, an instinct sharpening his senses against a potential threat. But the longer he observed you, the more he realized this feeling wasn't born from danger.

If anything, being near you brought a strange sense of... calm. A quiet patience he didn't recognize in himself.

He hated how alien the feeling was to him, how it almost felt like a weakness. He had trained himself to avoid attachment, to stay indifferent and distant. Yet here he was, feeling something that wasn't indifference at all.

Whatever this was, he sought to analyze it. So, true to his nature, he resorted to what he did best: watching.

From the shadows, of course.

Moze was perched on a rooftop, leaning back against the cool metal of an exhaust vent. From this vantage point, he could see you moving about below, unaware of the sharp, calculating gaze that tracked your every step as they often did.

He had spent countless days observing, analyzing, and waiting for some clarity, yet none came. Instead, he was left with questions he didn't want to ask and emotions he didn't want to name.

He was kind of stalking you, wasn't he?

A flicker of discomfort crossed Moze's otherwise stoic face. It wasn't that he hadn't considered this might be... wrong. Watching someone like this without their knowledge was, at best, morally dubious. But he wasn't here out of malice. He wasn't sure why he was here at all.

He scowled beneath his hood, frustrated by his inability to rationalize his actions. This was getting him quite literally nowhere. Actions only told part of the story, and he realized with some frustration that he wanted to hear your voice. To have a conversation, even if he had no idea what he'd say. If he would even say anything.

When you wandered into a quieter part of the market, away from the bustling crowds, something inside Moze shifted. This was his chance, wasn't it? He hesitated, muttering under his breath about how ridiculous he was being, but before he could talk himself out of it, his body moved on instinct.

With a flicker of translucent purple mist, he vanished from his perch and reappeared directly beside you. His expression was unreadable, his lips a taut line as his eyes flicked over to your surprised face.

What now? He hadn't planned this far ahead.

Moze's hand twitched, his usual blank expression faltering for the briefest moment. Words didn't come easily to him, and he half-hoped his presence alone would convey whatever it was he wanted to say.

When it became clear that wasn't enough, he forced himself to speak. "What are you doing?" It wasn't much. A question, plain and curt, delivered with a tone that could be mistaken for accusation. He didn't mean it that way, but subtlety was never his strength.