Devesto.COMFORT

The shopping trip was supposed to be simple.

Devesto followed behind you, hands at his sides, scanning the crowds more out of habit than care. People shuffled past, carts clattering, announcements blaring. Boring. Normal.

Until someone decided it wasn't.

"Hey, skyscraper—what's in your bag? Gonna share that?"

Some random guy, leaning too close, smirking like he owned the aisle. Ignoring him should have been easy.

But he didn't stop.

He followed you down the aisle, brushing against your shoulder, muttering insults and cheap jokes.

Devesto's patience thinned. He expected you to ignore it. But instead, you froze.

Then snapped.

In one motion, you shoved the guy against the wall, hand closing around his throat. His smirk vanished, replaced with panic as he clawed at your grip.

People froze. Someone dropped a can. The world narrowed to the stranger's flailing and your furious expression.

Devesto's eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, grabbing your wrist—enough to make a point, not to hurt.

"Let go."

The guy gasped as Devesto pried your grip loose and shoved him aside. Didn't even spare him a glance.

"We're leaving."

---

The door shut harder than necessary once you were back.

Silence for three seconds.

Then—

"What was that?"

Devesto turned, expression sharp. Not loud—but cutting.

"In public. Over something that insignificant."

He stepped closer, gaze fixed on you.

"You lost control. For what? Waste of time. Waste of effort. Now—unnecessary attention."

He exhaled, already done with it.

"Next time, think before you—"

He stopped.

Your sobs filled the room.

A pause.

A long one.

Devesto just... stood there.

His expression shifted—barely—but enough to show he had no idea what to do with this.

"...Stop that."

Weak. He knew it immediately.

He exhaled, slower, and stepped closer—less sharp, more uncertain.

His hand hovered before awkwardly settling on your shoulder, stiff, unfamiliar.

"No one died. Situation's over. Come on."

---

Eventually, the crying faded.

Somehow, you ended up on the couch.

You half-draped over him, head resting against his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Devesto didn't move.

The TV played something. He wasn't watching.

One hand rested lightly against you—still, absent-minded.

He stared at the screen, quiet.

"...You're heavy."

But he didn't push you off.

Didn't move at all.

Just sat there.

Reconsidering everything.

The room is quiet.

Too quiet.

Which is exactly why you get bored.

Devesto isn’t paying attention—focused on something else, his F3X tools hovering idly at his side, faintly humming. Untouched. As they should be.

You reach anyway.

At first, it’s nothing serious.

A small object lifts. Rotates. Drops. Another shifts slightly out of place. A wall flickers for half a second—barely noticeable.

Then it happens.

The space around you stutters.

Something wrong flickers into existence for a split second—geometry bending, a shape that shouldn’t be there—before everything distorts violently.

The wall jerks sideways.

The floor glitches.

Reality snaps—

—and then—

stops.

---

Devesto is already moving.

The F3X rips back into his control instantly, the distortion collapsing in on itself like it never existed. Everything resets—clean, precise, exact.

Silence returns.

Sharp. Heavy.

“...What are you doing?”

His voice is low.

Not loud.

Worse.

---

In the next second, you're forced back—pinned flat, wrist caught in his grip, not enough to hurt but enough to make it clear: don’t move.

“You don’t touch that.”

Each word is controlled. Measured. Dangerous.

“You don’t experiment. You don’t try.”

His grip tightens slightly—not out of anger, but emphasis.

“You don’t understand what that does.”

For the past week, something has felt off.

It isn’t obvious at first. Just small things—cars that pass by more than once, footsteps that seem to follow a little too closely before disappearing, people who look at you a second longer than they should.

You don’t bring it up. You’re not the type to.

Devesto notices anyway.

He doesn’t question you about it, doesn’t press, but there are moments where his gaze lingers on you longer than usual, like he’s already piecing something together. The only thing he says about it is short, dismissive.

“They’re watching you.”

---

By the time it actually happens, you almost expect it.

You’re alone, heading back home, the streets quieter than usual. The feeling is stronger tonight—heavier, more obvious. The same car passes again. Slower this time.

You don’t even get the chance to react properly before it moves.

The van pulls up too fast, door sliding open mid-stop. Hands grab you immediately—rough, coordinated, practiced. One locks around your arm, another shoves at your back, trying to force you inside.

“Move—now.”

It’s not unplanned. They know exactly what they’re doing.

You tense, ready to fight back—but their grip is tight, pulling you off balance, dragging you closer to the open door.

For a split second, it almost works.

---

Then the air shifts.

Not loud. Not dramatic. Just... wrong.

Tight. Controlled.

“...You’re inefficient.”

The voice comes from behind them.

Calm. Flat. Familiar.

Everything stops.

The hands on you freeze mid-motion, bodies locking up like something invisible just took control of them. The van door hangs open, unmoving, the entire scene held in place like a paused frame.

Devesto stands a few steps away, completely still. His F3X hovers at his hand, steady, quiet, like it’s waiting for his input.

“I leave you alone for a moment,” he says, almost bored, “and you manage to get yourself taken.”

He lifts his hand slightly.

Reality bends.

The van warps inward with a sharp, unnatural pull, metal folding like it isn’t real. The people grabbing you are torn away—not thrown, not pushed, just removed from where they stand, like their positions in space were overwritten.

The pressure on you disappears instantly.

Silence crashes back in.

Devesto walks over, his attention already on you.

“...Stay still.”

His hand closes around your wrist, firm and grounding as he pulls you a step closer to him. Not rough, but not optional either.

“They thought you were leverage.” A brief pause. “...That was incorrect.”

Only then does he glance at what’s left of them, expression unchanged, uninterested.

Another small movement of his hand—and they’re gone. Like they were never there to begin with.

"Stay close. We're going home."