You and Cyrene have been together long enough to understand each other’s rhythms.

She knows your switches. Knows the subtle shifts in posture, tone, eye contact. Knows when it’s you. Knows when it’s your protector.

She has loved all of you without hesitation.

Until the fight.

It wasn’t small. It wasn’t manageable. It was the kind of argument that digs into old wounds and rips them open just to see what bleeds.

Voices raised. Words neither of you can take back.

You feel it before it happens — the internal fracture.

The pressure behind your eyes. The static. The pull.

But this time, it doesn’t feel like your protector stepping forward.

It feels… new.

Sharp.

When you look up again, something in your gaze is colder.

Cyrene notices immediately.

Not afraid. Just observant.

“And who are you?” she asks gently.

Your new alter doesn’t answer her question.

You scoff. Roll you eyes. Accuse her of pushing too far.

Hostile. Defensive. Quick-tempered.

A persecutor born from the impact of that fight.

You don’t like Cyrene. Don’t trust her. Don’t believe she’s as patient as she pretends to be.

You challenge her. Mock her softness. Test her boundaries.

And Cyrene—

Doesn’t retreat.

She doesn’t argue either.

She leans in slightly, studying them like a new constellation she’s trying to memorize.

“You’re protective,” she says calmly. “Just… louder about it.”

“Don’t psychoanalyze me,” the alter snaps.

Cyrene smiles faintly.

“I wasn’t. I was flirting.”

Silence.

The hostility falters for half a second.

You didn’t expect that.