Chapter Text
Shin squinted against the harsh glow of his phone screen, the light searing through the lingering haze of sleep as he silenced his alarm, the shrill sound awakening the barest traces of a headache he hoped would dissipate as the day went on. The room was still cloaked in a pre-dawn hush, the curtains left half-drawn so the earliest edges of sunrise bled faint gold across the floorboards. One message blinked on his lock screen.
From: Seba Natsuki —sent 03:26
Stop by the workshop.
It wasn’t strange for Seba to message him, but it wasn’t a particularly common occurrence either. Their contact had become something of a recurring anomaly since Shin's brief, chaotic time as a student at the JCC. He didn’t frequent the campus anymore—at least, not in any official capacity—but he made semi-regular trips to Seba’s workshop to make tweaks to the power glove since it was still something of an experimental prototype. Its delayed effect rendered it practically unusable for anyone but Shin, making it one of the less refined devices Seba had churned out—which was saying something, considering his workshop’s infamous graveyard of bizarre, barely functional inventions. Shin still remembered the “spiney knife without spines,” which turned out to be less a knife and more an oddly-shaped letter opener with a self-destruct feature, or the pair of shoes that spontaneously combusted at random intervals. Useful? No. Entertaining? Absolutely.
In exchange for his ongoing feedback on the glove, Shin often found himself roped into field-testing Seba’s more questionable creations—usually the ones so risky that even the most daring students gave them a wide berth. If it carried a risk of burns, electrocution, or spontaneous limb loss, chances were good it ended up in Shin’s hands. That wasn’t to say he enjoyed the threat of injury. He just tolerated it better than most.
Of course, getting to the campus was something of a massive hassle, but assassins had their shortcuts (some of which Sakamoto-san had introduced him to). His role in the infiltration incident had left enough of a mark that most of the security systems simply ignored him now. Technically, he shouldn’t have had that kind of access. But practically? Nobody stopped him.
A strand of sleep-mussed blond hair drifted into his eyes as he sat up and stretched, reminding him that he was in need of a shower (and maybe a haircut soon) before the shop opened up.
He tapped out a quick reply to Seba, noting the atrocious timestamp. The man had messaged him at some unholy hour—again. There was a good chance Seba had passed out at his workbench rather than hauling himself back to his hardly used dorm room. That meant Shin’s response would likely go unread until the rest of the weapons research department started filtering into the lab, looking for coffee and trying not to trip over half-finished prototypes.
From: Shin —sent 06:01
(^-^ゝok be there after work
He’d long since accepted that trying to get specific information out of Seba over text was a hopeless endeavor—like trying to pry a fresh steak out of the mouth of a hungry dog, a completely useless and irritating exercise. Better to just go along with it.
With a resigned sigh, he set his phone face down on the nightstand, turning the screen away from his eyes as if even its dim glow might deepen the slow throb already building behind them. He didn’t bother flipping on the light. Even the idea of overhead lights seemed aggressive this morning—too sharp, too bright, like they were made of needles instead of photons. It wasn’t unusual. His ESP had always made him more susceptible to headaches, though they were typically mundane in their severity. Only when he pushed himself too far did they escalate into something more than a dull pressure, something that could floor him if he wasn’t careful.
He’d gotten better at managing it over the years. When he was younger, stepping into a crowd had felt like drowning in other people’s thoughts—shouted wants, whispered fears, stray memories filling his head all at once. It had taken years of practice to sort through the chaos, to train his mind to automatically tune most of it out. Now, what had once been a deafening roar was usually no more than a distant murmur, unintelligible unless he purposely tuned in and easy enough to ignore.
But maybe not today.
Today, it felt like his mental shields were paper-thin. Already, strangers’ thoughts drifted in from the sidewalk uninvited, fragmented and sharp-edged—passing worries, flashes of annoyance, vague to-do lists and half-formed dreams—all of it unfiltered, all of it echoing a little too loudly. He wasn’t trying to listen, but it didn’t seem to matter.
He let out a quiet sigh and gathered the rest of his clothes under one arm, stepping barefoot into the hallway and making his way to the bathroom. The tile was cold against his skin. He hoped the ache behind his eyes would fade with the steam and warmth of the shower.
Thankfully, it did.
Waiting for him on the kitchen table was an egg sandwich, crusts trimmed and sliced neatly on the diagonal—Mrs. Aoi’s handiwork, without question. He inhaled it gratefully before making his way downstairs, tying his apron around his waist as he walked feeling substantially more ready to face the day than he had thirty minutes ago.
Hana was already in full-speed chatter mode, practically bouncing in her seat as she told him it was art day at school. She launched into an animated list of all the ways she planned to draw Sugar the Rabbit: Sugar on a bike, Sugar in a rocket ship, Sugar playing the drums, Sugar saving the world. Shin nodded along, smiling at her enthusiasm while finishing his coffee and preparing to open the shop with Mr. Sakamoto.
Even as Mrs. Aoi ushered Hana out the door and down the street toward the train station, her familiar thoughts flickered across the edges of his awareness like static: Sugar on a skateboard, Sugar in a ninja costume, Sugar doing flips. It wasn’t until they finally rounded the corner that the mental noise faded, leaving his range.
By noon, the headache had crept back in—a dull pulse at the base of his skull that bloomed steadily upward, settling across the crown of his head like a too-tight band. He rubbed at his temple absently as he crouched to restock the lower shelves of instant ramen, trying to ignore the rhythmic throb that matched the pace of the store around him.
The store seemed particularly busy for a weekday. The weather had shifted noticeably over the past few days, the crisp bite of autumn sharpening into something colder. Today’s chill had sent people trickling through the doors in a steady stream, all craving something warm and comforting. Lu’s pork buns were selling faster than she could steam them, the hot drinks were flying off the shelves, and the oden station was practically a crowd magnet.
While he wasn’t the one serving it, proximity alone was enough for him to hear each patron’s indecisive thoughts;
“I should get more potatoes, but… ugh, carbs.”
“That fish cake looks amazing—no, wait, what if the boiled eggs run out?”
“Extra, extra radish, definitely… but will it even fit in the bowl?”
Across the store, Mr. Sakamoto peered over the top of his newspaper, his eyes sharp and assessing. Shin didn’t think he was doing a bad job hiding his discomfort—his shoulders were squared, his face relaxed into a neutral, pleasant expression as he helped an older woman find her favorite brand of lemon tea.
But nothing got past Mr. Sakamoto.
“Shin,” The older man’s voice sounded in his head. “Take a break”
Shin winced internally and shook his head. Out loud, he replied, “I’m alright. I don’t need a break.” He tugged at the edge of his apron, smoothing it down with both hands as if that might somehow steady him.
The old woman gave him a grateful smile and shuffled down the next aisle, lemon tea in hand, oblivious to the quiet standoff happening behind her.
Mr. Sakamoto didn’t say another word. He simply lowered his newspaper, one deliberate inch at a time, until his eyes met Shin’s over the rim of his glasses. The look he gave was unreadable to most, but Shin knew better—it was not a suggestion.
Shin exhaled through his nose, defeated, and muttered a quiet, “Alright, alright,” under his breath. He set the last ramen packet on the shelf, wiped his hands on his apron, and made his way toward the back stairwell before Mr. Sakamoto resorted to killing Shin in his mind.
As he climbed, the headache lingered, but the noise began to soften behind him—like slipping into the bathroom of a crowded club. The thrum of bass and chatter was still there, pressing faintly against the walls, but dulled, muffled beneath layers of distance and plaster.
The upper floor was empty. Not silent, exactly—but empty in a way that felt louder than it should. The kitchen table still bore traces of Lu’s earlier whirlwind of cooking: a few steam trays stacked haphazardly, stray smudges of dark red sauce on a dishrag left to dry, the lingering smell of pork hanging in the air. But she was with Mr. Sakamoto now, Heisuke was still out making deliveries for the lunch rush, Hana was at school, and Mrs. Aoi was out running errands.
Without them, the apartment above the shop felt... off. Too spacious. Too still.
It should’ve been soothing, but it wasn’t real quiet. It was the absence of physical presence, nothing else. Beneath the floorboards, the muted rhythm of the store thrummed through the wood. Thoughts buzzed just below, easily accessible if he let himself lean in. A dozen minds in the shop, maybe more, each with their own impatient inner monologues.
He could tune them out, and he did. But they were still there, a constant background hum just waiting for an open door.
He took a seat at the table, stacking a few stray steam trays into some semblance of order before taking out his phone from where it had rested in his pocket, its presence barely acknowledged during the morning rush.
A new message blinked on the lock screen, timestamped only minutes ago:
From: Seba Natsuki —sent 12:19
Ok.
Truly a master of brevity, Shin thought sarcastically to himself as he tried to figure out whether that message even warranted a response. Then the familiar bouncing ellipsis appeared at the bottom of the screen. Seba was typing.
Shin paused, watching it expectantly. Waiting.
Then it vanished.
The empty chat hung there like an unfinished sentence, and Shin exhaled through his nose in frustration, sliding the phone back into his pocket without replying. Guess there wasn’t anything else that needed to be said, not really, he figured. But something about that was disappointing, though he couldn’t quite put a finger on why. Maybe Shin was stupid for expecting more.
He got up and poured himself a glass of water, swallowing half of it in one long gulp before leaning on the counter and watching the clock tick toward nowhere. The quiet of the apartment still pressed around him—not peaceful, just hollow—and his headache had stubbornly held on through it all, pulsing steady and low.
So much for rest.
What he wanted now was motion—something automatic, repetitive, familiar—something useful. The methodical rhythm of stocking shelves. The clean, precise weight of a pistol in his hands, each part slotting into place. Something that gave his body purpose and left his mind just busy enough.
He glanced at the clock again. Almost time. Close enough.
The glass made a clink sound as he set it down in the sink a little harder than intended. The sharpness of the sound hit him like a nail to the forehead, flaring the ache behind his eyes, but he shook it off, bracing himself for the swell of thoughts pushing harder against his consciousness as he descended the stairs back to the main shop.
The store was quieter than when he’d left. He knew that without needing to see it—had felt the minds slip away one by one, leaving behind the gentle aftershocks of their presence. He could trace them still, in fragments. A woman hurrying down the street with oden in hand, debating whether to eat it on the bench or wait until she got home. A man whose mind still echoed with the image of Lu’s pork buns, second-guessing his decision to only buy two.
Voices always there. Always thinking. Rarely enough to drown in, but never hushed enough to entirely ignore.
The rest of his shift passed with little fanfare. The rhythm of the day settled back into something familiar, if not exactly comfortable. He bickered with Lu over the inventory numbers—good-natured, mostly. He exchanged a few casual words with Heisuke in between deliveries. He helped Mrs. Aoi sort through the latest stock shipment when she returned, lifting boxes and double-checking labels with a kind of muscle memory that didn’t require real focus.
Later, when Hana burst through the store’s front door with her backpack askew and cheeks flushed from the walk, Shin was already crouched by the display case, pretending not to wait for her. She launched into a breathless rundown of her latest drawings—Sugar the Rabbit flying a jet, Sugar rescuing a cat, Sugar playing the guitar—and he nodded along, offering the right encouraging noises at the right moments even as the pressure behind his eyes persisted, dull but ever-present.
His headache accompanied him through it all, not overwhelming, but not quite in the background either. A constant, low-grade pulse—like a muscle held tense all day without release.
He found himself wishing, not for the first time, that his ESP was something he could turn off, even just for a minute.
But the thought came with a sting of guilt, quick and sharp.
He couldn’t afford that kind of wishfulness. Not really. Not when it was his job to help keep the Sakamotos safe. He never knew when trouble might surface, when a stranger’s thoughts might shift from mundane to malicious. The only advantage he had was that he’d hear it coming—feel the ripple before the splash. And that mattered. It had to matter.
They trusted him. Mr. Sakamoto trusted him.
And beyond that, he suspected Mr. Sakamoto rather enjoyed having someone around who could hear his thoughts without requiring actual conversation. His brand of affection was a quiet glance, a subtle nudge, or—at most—a mental command delivered with the curt clarity of someone who saw speech as mostly optional.
So Shin could endure the noise. The ache. The constant pull of a thousand voices.
Because that was the deal, wasn’t it? He tried to get stronger, tried to keep up, tried to protect them. And in return, for the first time in his life, he got a place that felt almost like home. It was as simple as that, he figured. An easy decision.
“Go,” Mr. Sakamoto’s voice chimed through his head accompanied by a dull pressure behind his eyes. Shin winced slightly, from the sensation rather than the message itself, but managed to swallow the discomfort before it reached his expression. “I’ll close.”
“Thanks!” Shin called back, offering the older man a quick, grateful smile as he stepped out from behind the counter. He tugged his apron over his head in one smooth motion but didn’t toss it into the usual bin. Instead, he folded it neatly over one arm, already making a mental note to stash it safely upstairs rather than leave it in the back where Lu might get her hands on it for when it came time to close and she decided she didn’t want dirty mop water all over her apron.
She’d stopped “borrowing” his apron in front of him—ever since the incident where she got kidnapped in his place because she’d been wearing it. But apparently, not a traumatic enough one to stop her from “reappropriating” it when he wasn’t around. Shin didn’t want to tempt fate twice.
“Leaving already? You’re going to see Seba, right?” Lu’s voice floated up from behind a fridge door as she crouched down to restock a shelf of canned drinks. Her organization was slightly off—the rows weren’t perfectly aligned, which Shin noticed with a minor twitch of his left eye—but he let it slide. This time.
“Yup,” he said with a nod, jogging upstairs to stash the apron in his room. When he came back down, he’d added an extra jacket over his sweatshirt and slipped the power glove into his pocket. He’d already told them about Seba’s message earlier that morning. Family rule number twelve: no secrets.
Lu popped up from behind the fridge, a box of drinks in hand and one eyebrow raised. “Tell that invisible jerk he still owes me for the lab incident.”
“You say that every time,” Shin said, brushing past her toward the door.
“Because he still owes me,” she snapped back, smacking him lightly in the arm with the box for emphasis.
He opened his mouth to reply, hesitated, then closed it again. He could’ve reminded her, again, that he had been the one Seba was originally hired to abduct. That Seba had actually stabbed him. That Lu had only been mistaken for him because she’d stolen his damn apron in the first place. But he’d long since learned that arguing with Lu was like trying to out-stubborn a mountain—if the mountain also had really sharp elbows and an affinity for petty vengeance.
He didn’t have any siblings, but he imagined this is what it was like. The constant ribbing, the bickering that never truly had a beginning or end, all piled on top of a loyalty so deep it didn’t need to be spoken aloud.
Spending time with the Seba brothers had only solidified the comparison. For all their differences, Natsuki and Mafuyu were… tame, at least compared to him and Lu. Their dynamic had a quiet efficiency to it, a practiced ease that came from years of surviving side-by-side. He wouldn’t trade it, but he sometimes wondered what it’d be like to have that kind of low-volume sibling energy instead of one that frequently involved dodging things thrown across the kitchen.
With one hand on the door handle, Shin glanced back and said, “I’ll let him know. But I’m not your debt collector.”
Lu waved him off like a fly. “Then tell him I’m charging interest.”
He grinned as he stepped outside, the chill of late afternoon brushing cool against his face, his headache dull but steady in the background. A meeting with Seba wasn’t exactly the definition of restful, but it was a change of pace, at the very least. He shot a quick text as he started down the sidewalk away from the shop, drawing his coat tighter across his chest.
From: Shin —sent 17:46
omw ┌( `ー´)┘
The commute passed in a blur of grey skies and jostling bodies—uneventful in the strictest sense, yet it did nothing to soothe the stubborn ache blooming behind his eyes. By the time he made his final approach to the JCC, the dull throb had evolved into a relentless pounding in time with his heartbeat. It made the world feel louder, brighter, harsher.
He tried to weave through the crowds as unobtrusively as possible, keeping a wary eye on the swinging limbs and overstuffed backpacks that threatened to collide with him.
Each accidental contact which would’ve typically been mundane made him bristle. It was an old habit—memory. That visceral, skin-prickling tension from his days on the street, when every touch carried the potential for theft, violence, or worse. Even after Mr. Sakamoto had briefly taken him under his wing—after the training, the structure, the weapons he’d mastered to protect himself—some part of him in the back of his mind still registered touch as a threat. Too invasive. Too intimate. Too much.
But no matter how carefully he moved through the crowds, slipping between bodies like smoke, the world’s voices pushed in around him, not just the noise of the crowd but the technicolor spill of unspoken thoughts. He tried to anchor himself—focused on his breathing, the beat of the music through his headphones, the rhythm of his steps—but stray thoughts still leaked through like water oozing through cracks in a ceramic mug.
“Ugh, it’s freezing. I should’ve brought a thicker jacket.”
“If I have to do overtime again, I swear I’m quitting.”
“She’s so cute. I wonder if she’d let me hold her hand. Would that be weird?”
“Crap. Lost again. I suck at this game.”
Some passed through him like a gust of wind, some barely brushing against his consciousness, others stuck uncomfortably, dragging bits of emotion behind them—longing, stress, insecurity, loneliness. It was like trying to walk through a downpour without getting wet. No matter how careful he was, something always seeped in.
His phone beeped in his hand just as he set foot on the JCC campus.
From: Seba Natsuki —sent 18:39
Ok.
Shin exhaled sharply through his nose, resisting the urge to huff out loud. Barely. If he hadn’t long since accepted that Seba’s default texting style was a mix of tactless brevity and borderline rudeness, he might’ve taken another one-word response personally. Might’ve assumed Seba didn’t actually want to see him, and was just humoring him out of obligation or boredom. But he knew better.
Experience—both in combat and out of it—had taught Shin that Natsuki Seba did care. He just did it in a way that made you want to punch him most of the time.
Then, unexpectedly, the phone buzzed again.
From: Seba Natsuki —sent 18:40
See you soon.
Well, that was different.
Shin blinked at the screen. For a man who seemed personally offended by the existence of small talk, two texts in the span of a minute bordered on uncharacteristic warmth. He suspected Seba would gladly chuck his phone into the ocean if it weren’t for the necessity of modern communication—and, of course, the need to keep tabs on his little brother.
Hell, Seba’s texting habits made him seem downright talkative in-person, which was saying something.
Maybe two “Ok. Capital O, period.” texts in a row were such an egregious offense that even Seba’s frostbitten sense of etiquette had picked up on it—though, Shin doubted it.
He moved through the greenery that framed the walkways, passing clusters of students scattered across benches and low stone walls, their conversations forming a constant low hum both in the air and, more invasively, in his mind.
“Ugh, another JCC bowl for dinner. I’m starving.”
“I got my ass kicked in drills today. I need to hit the gym harder.”
“Not good enough. I have to be faster next time…”
“Didn’t that guy help fight off those crazy assassins a few months back?”
That last one stood out. The thought was sharp, tinged with something adjacent to admiration and a distinct unease, like they couldn’t decide whether Shin belonged in a newspaper headline or a watchlist.
It seemed, by the lack of reaction as he stepped into the room, that the rest of the weapons research post-grads who frequented the workshop had finally stopped considering his presence as “disturbing the sanctity of the space”. Still, a few—judging by the volume of their thoughts—simply hadn’t given up hope that he might one day show up with Akira in tow, despite the fact that he’d come alone nearly a dozen times now.
“Yo, Natsuki,” he called as he approached.
At some unidentifiable point, he’d shifted to using Seba’s first name. It was practical—too many conversations with both Seba brothers in the same room had made “Seba” a logistical nightmare. First names added clarity. And if Natsuki minded, he’d never said a word.
The other man was hunched over his usual workbench, hood pulled up, oversized headphones clamped over his ears. He didn’t turn at the sound of his name, too focused on whatever precision work he was doing with a screwdriver. From Shin’s angle, all he could make out was a cluttered sprawl of metal fragments, tangled wires, bolts, and something that looked suspiciously like the bottom half of a tiny, likely weaponized robot.
Natsuki Seba, in his natural habitat.
The thoughts of the surrounding post-grads pressed in as Shin crossed the threshold, muffled but insistent—filtering in past his lowered mental shields.
“Oh, it's that guy again.”
“I wonder if he’d try out my new pistol grip… Professor said it’s not ready but still…”
“I wonder if Akira-chan is with him?”
“Natsuki? Oh—he means Seba.”
Shin clenched his jaw, forcing his expression into something neutral as his headache flared, sharp and immediate. He made a conscious effort to push the thoughts out, one by one, like swiping away persistent pop-ups.
Natsuki finally seemed to register his presence, turning slightly to glance over his shoulder.
“Hey,” he greeted, his voice even, bordering on flat. He tugged off both his hood and headphones in a single motion, tousling his already messy hair. His voice followed again, not aloud this time but directly into Shin’s head, low and matter-of-fact: “That was fast.”
“Mr. Sakamoto let me off a little early,” he explained, shucking off his overcoat and casually tossing it onto a nearby pile of Seba’s gear. God only knew what he’d just covered with it, but he figured if it was important, Natsuki would’ve said something.
But he didn’t comment—just made a noncommittal hum and returned his attention to the project in his hands. Shin drifted over to the perpendicular workbench behind him and leaned against it, waiting, watching the careful motion of his hands over his shoulder.
Whatever Natsuki was working on, it was clearly delicate. He adjusted a thin canister that Shin now recognized—uneasily—as a container for lighter fluid. Uh oh. But thankfully, no fires or explosions followed. After a few more turns of the screwdriver and a quick test of its stability, Seba set the contraption aside and stood up with a satisfied motion, turning to face Shin who met him with an expectant look.
Natsuki’s hair was a mess from pulling off the headphones, black curls jutting up at odd angles like he’d been electrocuted by one of his own prototypes. He didn’t seem to notice—or care—as he reached into one of the cavernous pockets of his jacket.
“I have something for you to test,” he said, his tone devoid of flourish, like he was offering a pencil instead of a potentially deadly weapon.
Shin raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued but tempered with caution.
Natsuki withdrew his hand slowly and turned his palm up, revealing two thick, C-shaped pieces of metal. They vaguely resembled the frame of a hearing aid missing the center components—if said hearing aid had been designed by a sleep-deprived engineer with zero concern for aesthetics. Coiled wires snaked along the surface, and the edges had clearly been sanded down just enough not to draw blood, but nowhere near polished enough to look like a final product.
“What is it?” Shin asked after a moment with no elaboration, still making no move to reach out and grab the mysterious prototypes from his hand.
“They’re electromagnetic range extenders,” Seba explained, as if it were obvious. “For your ESP. I based them on the same principles I used to build my hood. Figured if I could block your range, I could also expand it.”
Shin blinked, the dull throb in his skull momentarily drowned out by a surge of interest.
He reached out and picked up one of the curved devices, turning it over in his hand with careful fingers. He had no idea what he was looking at from a technical standpoint—wires, tiny nodules, sodered metal—but the concept alone sparked excitement in him.
More than once, opponents had slipped from his grasp simply by leaving his mental detection range. It was a flaw that grated on him—intolerable. He’d worked hard over the past year and consequently managed to extend his detection zone, but even that felt like a leash sometimes.
If these worked? If they could push that boundary even further?
The tactical advantage alone made his pulse quicken.
“He likes it.”
Shin glanced up reflexively, surprised as Natsuki’s voice filtered into his head. He hadn’t been trying to listen. Shin typically made a habit of not “eavesdropping” on the minds of his allies—less out of politeness and more to avoid the creeping guilt of accidentally overhearing something private. People were more comfortable when they believed their thoughts were safe.
Natsuki knew Shin could hear him, theoretically. But the offhanded quality of the thought suggested it hadn’t been meant for sharing. Not consciously, anyway.
“Now, just have to hope they work right.”
There was no anxiety in it—just that cool, mechanical neutrality that Natsuki defaulted to when dealing with unpredictable variables. Still, Shin could hear it, tucked deep in the unspoken layers: a flicker of uncertainty. Hope, maybe?
“You’re not gonna short circuit my brain with these, right?” Shin said finally, glancing up with a half-smile.
Natsuki blinked slowly, as if considering the question seriously. “Not unless I wired something backward.”
Shin snorted. “Comforting.”
He turned the device over in his hand again, the faint weight of potential settling across his shoulders. Not just as a tool—but as a kind of trust. Seba didn’t build things casually. He wasn’t the type to waste time on anything he didn’t deem necessary, and he certainly didn’t craft personal gear as nonchalant favors. If he built something for you, it meant something.
And now Shin was holding that “something” in his hand.
It's only then, that his headache decided to reassert itself, flaring up like a fire blooming across the crown of his skull. Not that it had truly gone away, just faded to the background under the distraction of curiosity. Now it returned with a vengeance, throbbing hard enough to make his vision pulse at the edges as if purposefully reminding him.
Shit, of course today of all days. He didn’t need to be a genius to know that strapping experimental tech to his brain was probably not going to help the situation. But even as he considered it, he already knew he wasn’t going to say no.
Not when Natsuki was looking at him like that.
To most, Natsuki’s expression would’ve seemed as unreadable as always—cool, impassive, maybe even bored. But Shin knew better. He caught the way the man’s eyes lingered just a second too long, the slight tilt of his head, the faint tightness around his mouth.
It reminded Shin—strangely, touchingly—of the way Hana looked when she came home from school and held out a new drawing, waiting for him to say it was good. That same quiet kind of hope, carefully disguised under layers of practiced indifference.
There’s no way Shin was saying no.
Besides, he reassured himself, he’s endured much worse headaches with much higher stakes. This? This was just an average, garden-variety, bad day headache.
What’s the worst that could happen?
He nearly laughed at the thought. A classic setup if he’d ever heard one.