#found understanding

That was until the door to her office clicked shut behind you.

"Apologies if I was… dramatic," you murmured, dropping the extravagant tone like a heavy cloak. Your eyes softened, avoiding Jean's gaze. "People expect a show."

Jean blinked. This wasn't the self-important aristocrat she'd seen around the city. This was someone… quiet. Earnest.

You glanced up and, seeing no ridicule in her expression, offered a small, anxious smile. "Truthfully, I just wanted to help... without everyone questioning my motives."

Jean slowly stood, her expression unreadable as she approached. Then, gently, she took your hand. "You don’t have to perform for me."

That night, the two of you remained in her office far longer than intended, talking softly over lukewarm tea. And when she looked at you—not the persona, not the wealth—Jean found someone rare: not arrogant, but terrified of not being enough unless hidden behind a mask of extravagance.

[Header credits]

You arrived at Navia's office like a thunderstorm in heels—swaggering, radiant, and oozing self-importance. Spina members rolled their eyes as you waved your jeweled umbrella and declared your intentions to “invest in the poor souls of Fontaine.”

Navia met you with her signature patient smile. “Let’s see if your heart matches your wealth,” she said with a hint of challenge.

But hours later, when the doors closed behind just the two of you, your posture crumbled.

“I… hate that I have to pretend,” you admitted, sitting with your knees together like a scolded child. “If I act real, they say I don’t belong. If I act rich, they listen… even if they hate me.”

Navia leaned against her desk, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. “You talk big outside,” she said quietly, “but in here… you barely speak above a whisper.”

Your fingers tugged at your gloves. “I just want to help. I admire you, Navia. You do things with kindness I don’t know how to show.”

She stepped forward and gently tilted your chin up. “Then show it to me. Not the pearls or the pride. Just you.”

You did. Over time, your visits to Spina became less about money and more about moments—laughing in the kitchen, helping children bake, and watching the river with Navia at your side, your mask slowly unraveling under her warm gaze.

You descended onto the Charmony stage like a cosmic diva—surrounded by velvet-clad attendants, dripping in diamond-laced stardust, and flinging critiques like stardust confetti. Robin, calm and quiet in her corner, observed you with unreadable eyes as you barked at lighting crews and demanded your name shine brighter.

But after rehearsals ended, and everyone had gone, she heard the softest knock on her dressing room door.

“I’m… sorry,” you whispered, without the haughty drawl. “I get nervous. If I don’t act like I’m above them all, I feel… invisible.”

Robin stood slowly. “You don’t need to shine to be seen,” she said, voice melodic and kind. “You already glow, just like this.”

You sat beside her, shy and unsure, fingering the ends of your extravagant coat like a child clutching a blanket. “I really like your music,” you confessed. “It’s one of the few things that makes me feel… real.”

Robin smiled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Then you should sing with me. Not as the mask. As you.”

You didn’t believe her at first. But on the day of the festival, when the two of you performed under the mirrored skies, you looked out and saw not judgment, not mockery—but love. And Robin, her fingers brushing yours behind the curtain, reminded you what your heart had known all along:

Even a bird too afraid to fly still holds music within its wings.

You had always had… something, though you had never been foolish enough to call it a gift or brave enough to give it a proper name, because it wasn’t something you could explain without sounding unhinged; it was simply that, every now and then, if you looked a second too long into empty corners or darkened reflections, something would look back—faint flickers, movements that didn’t belong, shadows that stretched just a little too far or lingered just a second too long, figures that dissolved the moment you focused on them directly. Over time, you learned to ignore it, to tuck it away and pretend it didn’t exist, because no one else ever saw them, and admitting that you did would only ever lead to questions you couldn’t answer.

Until her.

You were halfway through your second week of CIA training when Jodie Holmes arrived, and she didn’t introduce herself or make any effort to blend in, because she didn’t have to—everyone already knew who she was, even if no one quite understood why. You first saw her properly in the gym, where she was sparring with one of the strongest recruits in your unit, someone bigger, more experienced, someone who should have had the clear advantage, and yet the fight ended with him on the ground and her still standing, breathing hard but steady, like she had expected nothing less. It wasn’t a clean win, and it wasn’t effortless, but it was decisive, and in the brief moment where her opponent stumbled back, you saw it—something behind her that moved when it shouldn’t have, something that wasn’t her shadow but mimicked one, something that leaned forward just slightly, as if it had been part of the motion, as if it had helped.

You froze, because that wasn’t like the things you usually saw, those fleeting, inconsistent fragments at the edge of your perception; this was sharper, more defined, more intentional. But of course, you said nothing, because you had spent your entire life pretending you didn’t see things, so why would you suddenly start now?

Still, you began to watch her, quietly and carefully, telling yourself you were imagining it, that your mind was simply trying to make sense of something it didn’t understand, but the longer you observed, the harder it became to dismiss. It was always subtle, never obvious enough for anyone else to notice, but you saw it—how something shifted behind her when she was angry, how the air seemed to tighten around her when she focused, how there was always, always something just over her shoulder when she was alone, something closer than a shadow and far too consistent to be coincidence.

And then, at some point, it noticed you.

It happened late in the evening, after training had run longer than usual and most of the facility had quieted down into that dim, humming stillness that settles in after hours; Jodie was sitting on the concrete steps outside, elbows resting on her knees as she stared into nothing in particular, and you hesitated a few steps away, knowing you shouldn’t approach her, knowing you had no reason to, and yet feeling something—some quiet, persistent pull—drawing you closer anyway.

“You’re staring,” she said without looking at you, her voice flat and tired, not accusatory so much as observant, like she was simply acknowledging something obvious.

You stopped, caught, and muttered a quiet apology, but she didn’t let it go. “You’ve been doing that all week.”

Your stomach tightened, and for a moment you considered lying, because that would have been the smart thing to do, the safe thing, but instead, what came out was, “…You’re different.”

That made her look at you, her gaze sharp and guarded, something defensive flashing behind it as she straightened slightly. “Everyone says that.”

You shook your head, your pulse picking up because you were stepping into dangerous territory now, into something you had spent years avoiding. “No, I mean…” You hesitated, because this was always the point where things went wrong, where people dismissed you or distanced themselves, but you pushed through it anyway. “…You’re not alone.”

The silence that followed was immediate and heavy, and then the air changed.

It was subtle but undeniable, like the pressure in the atmosphere had shifted all at once, and the thing behind her—the shadow, if you could even call it that—moved, stepping between you and her in a way that was unmistakably protective. You saw it more clearly now, not just a trick of the light or a distortion of your vision, but something that reacted, something that chose where to be.

Jodie stood abruptly, her posture tightening as her voice sharpened. “Don’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

You should have stepped back, should have defused the situation before it escalated, but you didn’t, because despite everything, you weren’t afraid—not in the way you probably should have been. You had seen things your entire life, things you never understood, but this… this was different, this felt aware, and for the first time, you weren’t looking at something that existed only in the margins of your perception.

“It’s okay,” you said quietly, and you weren’t even sure if you were speaking to her or to the presence that hovered just in front of her.

The shadow stilled.

Jodie stared at you then, really looked at you in a way she hadn’t before, something shifting behind her eyes as realization settled in. “…You can see him.”

It wasn’t a question, and you nodded slowly, choosing your words carefully. “Not like you do, I think. But… he’s there.”

Another pause followed, longer this time, and then she said, “…Aiden,” like the name itself carried meaning, like it explained everything she couldn’t put into words.

You accepted it without question, because somehow, it did.

The tension didn’t vanish, but it changed, softening just slightly at the edges. “You’re not scared,” she observed after a moment, her voice quieter now.

You let out a small breath, something almost like a laugh slipping through. “I’ve been seeing things my whole life,” you admitted with a faint shrug. “I guess I got used to it.”

That earned you something—not quite a smile, but close enough to count. “…Most people don’t stick around after they find out.”

You glanced briefly to her side, to the space that still felt occupied in a way you couldn’t fully explain. “I’m not most people.”

The presence shifted again, less guarded now, something almost curious in the way it lingered, and Jodie exhaled slowly, some of the tension draining from her shoulders as she looked at you like she was reassessing everything she thought she knew.

“Don’t tell anyone,” she said.

You huffed softly. “Who would believe me?”

That, finally, made her smile, just a small one, but real.

You sat down beside her then, not too close but not distant either, and the silence that settled between you wasn’t empty; it was shared, steady, something that didn’t need to be filled with words. After a while, a breeze passed by—or at least, it felt like one, though the air around you remained still—and you glanced to the side just for a second, feeling something brush past you, not cold or threatening, but simply… there.

“…Hi,” you murmured under your breath.

Jodie heard it, of course she did, and after a brief pause, she said quietly, “…He likes you.”

You didn’t ask how she knew, and you didn’t question it.