Mira An sat at the third-row window seat of the bus, her head thrown back at the headrest, and her legs crossed. The window frame dulled as droplets of rain fell, the sterile scent of fresh air hung, and quiet doubts were silenced by conversations.
Her legs, shaped by the tight sheen of her black tactical suit --- woven with mana-silk composite fibers that ran from her collar to the insides of her reinforced expedition boots --- carried a kind of feminine elegance that felt out of place amid the loud, boisterous banter of the hunters, and oddly at odds with the face she was making. She wore an expression of cold indifference, yet her eyes were tinged with red, wrapped intensely with stubbornness. Half of her face was covered with a MRS issued Mana-Fused Respirator Mask, a device designed to protects the mana regulatory organ from overload of mana particulates, and her brown hair was neatly tied into a bun to avoid her hair getting in the way. She kept her hands near, her thumb caressing the palm of her other hand as if she were trying to soothe frayed nerves, and dark thoughts seemed to linger in her mind.
This is what Leslie Wraiths observed as he sat across the aisle from her. He hadn't meant to stare, it was just that he had recognized her. He had worked with her before, though barely --- she probably didn't remember him. Maybe that was better. He didn't want to bother her. Still, he couldn't stop noticing her every movement.
The slight stiffness in her shoulders, the way she looked like she was calculating danger before it even existed, and the way her eyebrows frowned. She was nervous.
Being nervous wasn't a bad thing per se. As he too, had lots of small worries in life. For instance, he was the smallest man on this ride, not that anyone would notice --- his frame was slender, almost delicate, the kind of build people assumed was female until he spoke. He hated it, a little, but not enough to complain.
However, what concerned him the most was the fact she, of all people, was visibly worried. She had a record or reputation, to say the least, of staying alive in high-ranked dungeons despite being a D-ranked awakener. Most who worked with her before said she had a way to stay calm despite the danger. He could attest to that fact too, and of all the three times he worked with her, he had never seen her so ... shaken.
He could imagine someone in her position would constantly be worried. Still, he could tell, something was off, and perhaps she was the only one who knew what it was. He wanted to ask her --- maybe he would, if the timing was right --- what was wrong. But he didn't. He never did. Instead, he kept his thoughts to himself.
He tugged at the strap of his pack, and leaned back, taking in the subtle hum of the bus and the faint vibration of the tires against the icy pavement. He could feel the lively energy of the others around him, but he focused on her. Every detail. Every habit. Every twitch.
He was twenty years old and a B-rank healer. He liked lucky charms, bears, and the idea of life. He had absolutely no attention of dying today.