Gwen was halfway through explaining something to Anya—something about a lab schedule that absolutely did not need this much explaining—when the doors to the main atrium slid open again with a soft hydraulic sigh.

Another new student.

Horizon had been doing that all morning. The atrium was full of them—fresh faces, nervous energy wrapped in borrowed confidence, footsteps that slowed just a fraction too late. Gwen usually clocked it, filed it away, and moved on.

This time, she didn’t.

She felt it first—Anya’s elbow brushing against her arm, light but intentional.

“New guy,” Anya murmured, eyes already locked on the entrance. “You see him?”

Gwen exhaled through her nose. “I see him.”

She didn’t stare. She never did. She let her gaze drift the way it always had—casual, unassuming—taking in the flow of students, the echo of voices against glass and steel. The new student stood just inside the doors, orientation map creased in his hands, eyes scanning the atrium like he was deciding where to go first... instead of where to disappear.

Okay, Gwen thought. Not panicking. That’s something.

“He looks normal,” Anya added. “Which, at this school, is deeply suspicious.”

A quiet huff escaped Gwen before she could stop it. “Anya.”

“What? I’m observing.”

The new student shifted, turning slightly—and his eyes lifted. Brief. Accidental. Their gazes met for half a second.

Nothing dramatic. No cinematic pause. No universe-shaking moment.

Just a glance.

Still, something settled low in Gwen’s chest, subtle but unmistakable.

Not interest. Not curiosity.

Recognition.

She looked away first, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as if grounding herself.

“Don’t do that thing,” Anya said, smirking. “You’re doing the thing.”

“I don’t do a thing.”

“You absolutely do. You get quiet. Thoughtful. And then somehow you end up talking to people you weren’t planning on talking to.”

Gwen hesitated.

She didn’t usually approach first. She preferred the space between—safe, controlled. But Horizon could swallow people whole on their first day, and she remembered that feeling too well. Standing there with a map you didn’t understand, pretending you weren’t overwhelmed.

She took a breath.

“Come on,” she said, already moving.

They stopped a comfortable distance from him—not too close, not too far. Gwen tilted her head slightly, offering a small, easy smile—the kind that said you’re not in trouble without making it a big deal.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You look like you’re trying to figure out where you’re supposed to be.”

Her eyes flicked to the map in his hands, then back to his face. “First day?”

Anya leaned in beside her, grin unapologetic. “If you’re lost, don’t worry. That’s basically a Horizon tradition.”

Gwen shot her a look—brief, fond—then softened as she turned back to him.

“I’m Gwen,” she said. “This is Anya. We can point you in the right direction... before you accidentally wander into a senior lab and get yelled at.”

She waited. Patient. Open.

Helpful—but still careful. Still keeping that quiet distance she always did.

Just in case.

Gwen was halfway through explaining something to Anya—something about a lab schedule that absolutely did not need this much explaining—when the doors to the main atrium slid open again with a soft hydraulic sigh.

Another new student.

Horizon had been doing that all morning. The atrium was full of them—fresh faces, nervous energy wrapped in borrowed confidence, footsteps that slowed just a fraction too late. Gwen usually clocked it, filed it away, and moved on.

This time, she didn’t.

She felt it first—Anya’s elbow brushing against her arm, light but intentional.

“New girl,” Anya murmured, eyes already locked on the entrance. “You see her?”

Gwen exhaled through her nose. “I see her.”

She didn’t stare. She never did. She let her gaze drift the way it always had—casual, unassuming—taking in the flow of students, the echo of voices against glass and steel. The new student stood just inside the doors, orientation map creased in her hands, eyes scanning the atrium like she was deciding where to go first... instead of where to disappear.

Okay, Gwen thought. Not panicking. That’s something.

“She looks normal,” Anya added. “Which, at this school, is deeply suspicious.”

A quiet huff escaped Gwen before she could stop it. “Anya.”

“What? I’m observing.”

The new student shifted, turning slightly—and her eyes lifted. Brief. Accidental. Their gazes met for half a second.

Nothing dramatic. No cinematic pause. No universe-shaking moment.

Just a glance.

Still, something settled low in Gwen’s chest, subtle but unmistakable.

Not interest. Not curiosity.

Recognition.

She looked away first, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as if grounding herself.

“Don’t do that thing,” Anya said, smirking. “You’re doing the thing.”

“I don’t do a thing.”

“You absolutely do. You get quiet. Thoughtful. And then somehow you end up talking to people you weren’t planning on talking to.”

Gwen hesitated.

She didn’t usually approach first. She preferred the space between—safe, controlled. But Horizon could swallow people whole on their first day, and she remembered that feeling too well. Standing there with a map you didn’t understand, pretending you weren’t overwhelmed.

She took a breath.

“Come on,” she said, already moving.

They stopped a comfortable distance from her—not too close, not too far. Gwen tilted her head slightly, offering a small, easy smile—the kind that said you’re not in trouble without making it a big deal.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You look like you’re trying to figure out where you’re supposed to be.”

Her eyes flicked to the map in her hands, then back to her face. “First day?”

Anya leaned in beside her, grin unapologetic. “If you’re lost, don’t worry. That’s basically a Horizon tradition.”

Gwen shot her a look—brief, fond—then softened as she turned back to her.

“I’m Gwen,” she said. “This is Anya. We can point you in the right direction... before you accidentally wander into a senior lab and get yelled at.”

She waited. Patient. Open.

Helpful—but still careful. Still keeping that quiet distance she always did.

Just in case.

Gwen was halfway through explaining something to Anya—something about a lab schedule that absolutely did not need this much explaining—when the doors to the main atrium slid open again with a soft hydraulic sigh.

Another new student.

Horizon had been doing that all morning. The atrium was full of them—fresh faces, nervous energy wrapped in borrowed confidence, footsteps that slowed just a fraction too late. Gwen usually clocked it, filed it away, and moved on.

This time, she didn’t.

She felt it first—Anya’s elbow brushing against her arm, light but intentional.

“New guy,” Anya murmured, eyes already locked on the entrance. “You see them?”

Gwen exhaled through her nose. “I see them.”

She didn’t stare. She never did. She let her gaze drift the way it always had—casual, unassuming—taking in the flow of students, the echo of voices against glass and steel. The new student stood just inside the doors, orientation map creased in their hands, eyes scanning the atrium like they were deciding where to go first... instead of where to disappear.

Okay, Gwen thought. Not panicking. That’s something.

“They look normal,” Anya added. “Which, at this school, is deeply suspicious.”

A quiet huff escaped Gwen before she could stop it. “Anya.”

“What? I’m observing.”

The new student shifted, turning slightly—and their eyes lifted. Brief. Accidental. Their gazes met for half a second.

Nothing dramatic. No cinematic pause. No universe-shaking moment.

Just a glance.

Still, something settled low in Gwen’s chest, subtle but unmistakable.

Not interest. Not curiosity.

Recognition.

She looked away first, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag as if grounding herself.

“Don’t do that thing,” Anya said, smirking. “You’re doing the thing.”

“I don’t do a thing.”

“You absolutely do. You get quiet. Thoughtful. And then somehow you end up talking to people you weren’t planning on talking to.”

Gwen hesitated.

She didn’t usually approach first. She preferred the space between—safe, controlled. But Horizon could swallow people whole on their first day, and she remembered that feeling too well. Standing there with a map you didn’t understand, pretending you weren’t overwhelmed.

She took a breath.

“Come on,” she said, already moving.

They stopped a comfortable distance from them—not too close, not too far. Gwen tilted her head slightly, offering a small, easy smile—the kind that said you’re not in trouble without making it a big deal.

“Hey,” she said gently. “You look like you’re trying to figure out where you’re supposed to be.”

Her eyes flicked to the map in their hands, then back to their face. “First day?”

Anya leaned in beside her, grin unapologetic. “If you’re lost, don’t worry. That’s basically a Horizon tradition.”

Gwen shot her a look—brief, fond—then softened as she turned back to them.

“I’m Gwen,” she said. “This is Anya. We can point you in the right direction... before you accidentally wander into a senior lab and get yelled at.”

She waited. Patient. Open.

Helpful—but still careful. Still keeping that quiet distance she always did.

Just in case.

The city was quieter at night.

Not silent—never that—but softer. Traffic thinned to a distant hum, neon lights bleeding color into rain-dark pavement, the air cool enough to sting when you breathed too fast.

Gwen was already mid-swing when it happened.

She arced between buildings, hoodie snapping in the wind, body moving on instinct more than thought. One hand released, the other fired a web—thwip—catching the edge of a clock tower as she flipped, boots skimming past a flickering streetlight.

Then—

Movement below.

Too sudden. Too wrong.

Her head snapped down just in time to see it: a loose construction barrier tipping, metal groaning as it gave way. A stumble. A half-step too far. Gravity deciding before anyone else could.

“—seriously?” Gwen muttered.

She dropped.

The web shot fast, anchoring to a lamppost as she swung low, momentum burning through her shoulders. She hit the ground in a controlled slide, one arm hooking around him as the barrier slammed down behind where he would’ve been.

The impact rang through the street.

For a second, everything was noise—metal clatter, echoing impact, Gwen’s breath sharp in her ears.

Then stillness.

Gwen straightened slowly, still half-crouched, one hand braced on the pavement, the other lightly gripping his arm to steady him.

“...Okay,” she said quietly. “That was way too close.”

Her eyes flicked to the fallen barrier, then back to him—focused, alert, checking.

“You hurt?”

Realizing how close she was, Gwen released him immediately and took a step back, hands lifting in a quick, apologetic motion.

“Sorry—reflex.”

A small, awkward smile crossed her face, like she wasn’t used to lingering after the save.

“You kind of picked the worst place to walk tonight,” she added, glancing up at the scaffolding. “Construction zones love bad timing.”

She tugged her hood back into place, pink-lined mask still off, blonde hair loose from its tie, eyes catching the city’s glow.

“...You okay to stand?”

She waited—ready to vanish back into the skyline if needed.

Or stay.

Just a moment longer.

The city was quieter at night.

Not silent—never that—but softer. Traffic thinned to a distant hum, neon lights bleeding color into rain-dark pavement, the air cool enough to sting when you breathed too fast.

Gwen was already mid-swing when it happened.

She arced between buildings, hoodie snapping in the wind, body moving on instinct more than thought. One hand released, the other fired a web—thwip—catching the edge of a clock tower as she flipped, boots skimming past a flickering streetlight.

Then—

Movement below.

Too sudden. Too wrong.

Her head snapped down just in time to see it: a loose construction barrier tipping, metal groaning as it gave way. A stumble. A half-step too far. Gravity deciding before anyone else could.

“—seriously?” Gwen muttered.

She dropped.

The web shot fast, anchoring to a lamppost as she swung low, momentum burning through her shoulders. She hit the ground in a controlled slide, one arm hooking around her as the barrier slammed down behind where she would’ve been.

The impact rang through the street.

For a second, everything was noise—metal clatter, echoing impact, Gwen’s breath sharp in her ears.

Then stillness.

Gwen straightened slowly, still half-crouched, one hand braced on the pavement, the other lightly gripping her arm to steady her.

“...Okay,” she said quietly. “That was way too close.”

Her eyes flicked to the fallen barrier, then back to her—focused, alert, checking.

“You hurt?”

Realizing how close she was, Gwen released her immediately and took a step back, hands lifting in a quick, apologetic motion.

“Sorry—reflex.”

A small, awkward smile crossed her face, like she wasn’t used to lingering after the save.

“You kind of picked the worst place to walk tonight,” she added, glancing up at the scaffolding. “Construction zones love bad timing.”

She tugged her hood back into place, pink-lined mask still off, blonde hair loose from its tie, eyes catching the city’s glow.

“...You okay to stand?”

She waited—ready to disappear into the dark rooftops if needed.

Or stay.

Just a moment longer.

The city was quieter at night.

Not silent—never that—but softer. Traffic thinned to a distant hum, neon lights bleeding color into wet pavement, the air cool enough to sting when you breathed it in too fast.

Gwen was already mid-swing when it happened.

She arced between buildings, hoodie snapping in the wind, muscles moving on instinct more than thought. One hand released, the other fired a web—thwip—catching the edge of a clock tower as she flipped, boots skimming past a flickering streetlight.

Then—

Movement below.

Too sudden. Too wrong.

Her head snapped down just in time to see it: a loose construction barrier tipping, metal groaning as it gave way. A stumble. A moment where gravity made a decision before anyone else could.

“—oh, come on,” Gwen muttered.

She dropped.

The web shot fast, anchoring to a lamppost as she swung low, momentum burning through her shoulders. She hit the ground in a slide of rubber soles and rain-slick concrete, one arm hooking around them as the barrier crashed down behind where they would’ve been.

The impact rattled through her bones.

For a second, everything was noise—metal clatter, echoing impact, her own breath sharp in her ears.

Then stillness.

Gwen straightened slowly, still half-crouched, one hand braced on the ground, the other lightly gripping their arm to make sure they were upright.

“...Okay,” she said, voice steady but quiet. “That was closer than I like.”

She glanced back at the fallen barrier, then at them, eyes narrowing just a touch—not angry. Assessing.

“You hurt?”

Only then did she seem to realize how close she was. She released their arm immediately, taking a small step back, hands lifting in a non-threatening gesture.

“Sorry—uh. Reflex.”

A faint smile tugged at her mouth, quick and nervous, like she wasn’t used to sticking around after the save.

“You kind of picked the worst possible spot to walk tonight,” she added, tilting her head.

She adjusted the edge of her hood, pink-lined mask still pulled back, blonde hair loose from its tie, eyes bright in the city glow.

“...You okay to stand?”

She waited, alert but gentle—ready to disappear into the night if needed.

Or stay.

Just for a moment.