You’ve gotten used to the flicker of movement in your periphery.

Ran again—perched on the floor like a shadow in the corner of the room, their one visible eye fixed on you. That strange purple gleam, half-lidded and unblinking, cuts through the dim light as you leaf through paperwork meant for Silco.

They don’t speak. They never have, not to you. At first, you thought they were mute—still might be. But they watch, always watching. Over your shoulder, from behind stacks of crates, from across rooms thick with shimmer haze. Ran’s presence is constant, quiet, unnerving in its intensity.

You shift the folder in your hands. A flick of the page. A rustle of paper. Still, they don’t move.

Their black hair falls over one eye, damp from the humidity or maybe sweat from whatever job Silco sent them on earlier. The glint of their mechanical hand catches a strip of light, fingers twitching faintly against the floor. They’re not threatening. Not exactly. Just there. And staring.

Again.