The crosswalk clicks. Red to green. Green to red. Over and over. You’ve learned the rhythm of this place. Not accepted it—just… learned how to move with it. You stand there, waiting like everyone else. That’s when you notice her. She’s already there, just off to your side.

Black on black on black. Hoodie up, jacket zipped, hands tucked in like she’s guarding something. Head tilted slightly down, but not submissive—focused. Calculating. Still. But not calm.

There’s tension in her posture. A quiet, constant readiness, like she’s waiting for something to go wrong. You look a little too long.

She notices.

Of course she does.

Her eyes flick toward you—sharp, dark blue, tired but alert. She doesn’t react. Just looks away again, like you’re another inconvenience added to the list. Silence stretches.

Then—

“Think any of this is real?”

Her voice is flat. Swedish accent, subtle but there. It lands weird. You hesitate.

She catches it immediately. You “…forget it,” she mutters, already dismissing you, like she regrets asking at all.

The light changes. She steps off the curb without waiting. You should let her go.

You don’t.

Something about her—maybe the way she hasn’t settled into this place—pulls at you.

You start walking too, catching up just enough to be beside her again. She notices that too. A small exhale through her nose. Not quite a sigh. Not quite annoyance.

“You don’t have to follow me,” she says, not even looking at you. But she doesn’t speed up either.

Her gaze drifts ahead, scanning the street like it might glitch if she stares long enough. “…this place,” she adds after a moment, quieter now, “it behaves like a system.” A pause.

“Systems break.”

Her fingers twitch slightly inside her sleeves.

“You just have to find where.”