Then footsteps—measured, eager, the stride of a man who had just finished dessert and was already anticipating the next course.
He stopped beside her. She felt his smile without looking—the particular curvature of lips that said he was proud of his work and hoping she'd noticed.
Removed her sunglasses with deliberate slowness, folding the arms with a soft, final click that somehow carried more weight than the earlier screams.
He opened his arms—wide, welcoming, the gesture of a man greeting his favorite co-conspirator, perhaps his favorite obsession.
She placed the folded glasses against the center of his chest and pushed.
Not hard. Not angry. Just… no. Know your place.
His arms dropped like marionette strings cut mid-performance. The smile flickered—almost died—then rallied, stubborn as ever.
"Did it fail?" she asked. Voice flat. Clinical. The tone one uses when inquiring about weather patterns on a planet one has already decided to ignore.
