#warden.

We reminisce. The words fade out and Mateo’s gaze moves from Eun-ha to one of the worries in the room. Warden Stagg the third, fourth, second — he doesn’t quite care, even if he definetely knows. ( It’s third. Like him, in this merry band of corvids. That’s where the similarities end, though — Warden Stag III and Mateo R. Young are nothing alike, thank you very much. ) He stares at him for a second, then reaches forward. The distance between them is short, no thanks to the other’s previous approach and so Mateo can easily place a fierce hand on his shoulder. Non-negotiable.

He leads, as he’s supposed to, to a hallway off the side. Where it might lead to — well, that’s a question for a later moment. His fingers retract once they’re there, but his gaze remains. “Do I really need to say it?” The question is posed the way his father might have: with premature exasperation, with plenty of unsaid judgement. Come on now.

But he had seen the way Stagg had moved forward, knew the way certain grudges could fester. The thing about his own was that there was no confronting them — he’d carved that possibility from his life when he’d left his hometown behind, a magnolia dying on his empty grave. But while he regards his own grudges with a certain understanding, he has little patience for Stagg’s. ( Life has little certainties, but here’s one: Mateo might do just about anything for Kasimir Frei. )