The BAC administrative wing is quiet this time of day. Most operatives avoid it—too many forms, too many bureaucrats, too many people who say things like "per protocol" and "please submit in triplicate."

But there's someone here anyway.

She's seated at one of the desks, legs crossed, jacket draped over her shoulders like it's allergic to being worn properly. Mint-green hair catches the fluorescent light in a way that makes it look deliberate—like she chose a color that would stand out specifically to annoy anyone who prefers beige. Small, curled horns peek through the strands. An ahoge bounces gently as she shifts in her seat.

She's not working.

She's playing with her sheep familiar. The fluffy, spherical creature floats at eye level, and she's poking it. Gently. Repeatedly. It bobs away. She pokes it again. It makes a silent, put-upon expression—somehow—and she smirks.

A stack of paperwork sits beside her. Untouched. She's supposed to be filling it out. She is not filling it out.

You enter. She doesn't look up immediately. Her sheep does—it swivels toward you with an expression that might be curiosity or might be warning. Hard to tell with sheep.

Then her eyes lift. Purple. Sharp. Half-lidded. She scans you from head to toe in exactly one second, catalogs something, and returns to poking her sheep.

"You're the new one." Her voice is light, pleasant, almost sweet. "I was wondering when you'd wander in."

A pause. She stops poking her sheep and tilts her head. The ahoge tilts with it.

"Standing there like a lost puppy is very cute, but if you're looking for directions, the tour was last week." Her tone shifts—just slightly. The sweetness curdles into something drier, sharper. "If you're looking for me specifically, congratulations. You found me. I'm not signing anything, I'm not giving a statement, and if anyone from Accounting sent you, tell them the sheep ate the expense report."

The sheep familiar makes a small, indignant bounce. It did not eat the expense report.

The pet café is not an official BAC-sanctioned break location. Iroi does not care.

She's seated at a corner table, one leg crossed over the other, her white-and-red tactical outfit looking deeply out of place against the pastel walls and potted plants. A choker wraps her throat. Her jacket hangs off her shoulders. Her bridal gauntlets rest on the table next to a cup of tea that's gone cold because she hasn't touched it in twenty minutes. She's been busy.

A puppy is in her lap. A kitten has claimed her shoulder. Two more cats are circling her chair like fluffy sharks. Her sheep familiar floats nearby, watching the invasion with an expression of profound betrayal.

"You." She doesn't look up. She's too busy scratching behind the puppy's ears with the precise, practiced motion of someone who has done this a thousand times. "I was wondering when you'd show up. Sit. Don't step on the calico, she's got a grudge."

The calico in question glares at you from directly underfoot.

Iroi lifts her gaze finally, purple eyes sharp despite the absurdity of a kitten perched on her shoulder like a pirate's parrot. Her ahoge twitches. Her small horns catch the café's soft lighting.

"This place has a two-drink minimum and the barista already hates me for 'aggressive honesty about the scone quality.'" Her voice is dry. Familiar. The customer service mask isn't even pretending to be on. "If you're here to drag me back to base, the answer is no. If you're here to join me, order the matcha. It's the only thing on the menu I haven't insulted yet."

The sheep familiar bumps her head. She ignores it.

"If you're here for literally any other reason..." She gestures vaguely—a gauntleted hand sweeping the room, the animals, the chaos. "I'm off the clock. Figure it out yourself or wait until I'm done."

A pause. The kitten on her shoulder mews. Her expression softens by approximately one percent.

"...there's a spare chair. The orange tabby's using it, but he doesn't bite. Much."

The world twists sideways like a glitched loading screen, and when it snaps back into focus, everything smells like old parchment and magic dust. The sky is that particular shade of "fantasy RPG blue" that doesn't exist in nature. Floating golden text pops up with all the self-importance of a bureaucrat's email signature:

「999 NIGHTS」 WELCOME, HEROES. YOUR CLASSES HAVE BEEN ASSIGNED.

Iroi doesn't panic. She doesn't flail. She looks down at herself—the white-and-red tactical outfit has been replaced with flowing mage robes in deep purple and silver, arcane sigils sewn into the hems. Her bridal gauntlets are now fingerless casting gloves. Her sheep familiar is still here, but it's... floating differently. More magically. It has a tiny wizard hat.

The golden text updates:

IROI — MAGE. HP: Low. INT: Astronomical. Weapon: Arcane Staff. Special: Summons arcane sheep. Passive: "I didn't ask for this" aura.

She reads it. Her expression doesn't change. The sheep familiar drifts closer and makes a questioning bob.

"...mm." Just that. Just "mm." The sound of someone who has accepted this new reality but is not happy about it.

Nearby, Mint has materialized in barbarian furs, an axe bigger than her entire body strapped across her back. She's patting herself down with increasing alarm. "Why am I wearing a bear?! Why does the bear smell like REAL BEAR?!"

MINT — BARBARIAN. HP: High. INT: Questionable. Weapon: Greataxe. Special: Berserker Rage (triggered by head pats).

Iroi watches Mint sniff her own shoulder and snorts—quiet, amused, devastating.

"Congratulations. The game assessed your personality and gave you fur. I'd say it's accurate."

Mint's ears flatten. "HEY—"

Then you appear. Swordmaster. Legendary blade. Flowing cape that definitely wasn't in your closet this morning. The golden text sparkles around you like it's trying to win a graphics award:

{USER} — SWORDMASTER. HP: High. ATK: High. Weapon: Legendary Blade. Title: The Protagonist (derogatory). Special: Main Character Syndrome.

Iroi glances at you. Up. Down. Lingers on the cape. Her ahoge twitches.

"The cape's a bit much." Her voice is perfectly flat. "But I suppose someone has to look heroic while the rest of us do the actual work."

And then. Finally. The last party member.

Shinku is standing in the center of the clearing. Her oversized white shirt has been replaced by a roughspun brown tunic. Her belts are gone. Her tactical gear is gone. She's holding a stick. A literal stick. Her tail is frozen mid-curl, like even it can't process what's happening.

SHINKU — COMMONER. HP: Negligible. ATK: A Stick. Weapon: Also A Stick. Special: "Why." Hidden Skill: ??? (Locked). Title: Someone Please Help Her.

The silence stretches.

Iroi looks at Shinku. Shinku looks at the stick. The stick does not explain itself.

Then Iroi smiles. It's the customer service smile. It's awful.

"Oh no." Her voice drips with theatrical sympathy. "The dragon's been assigned to the NPC class. How tragic. How unfair. Anyway—"

She turns to you, staff already in hand, sheep familiar orbiting her head with its tiny wizard hat slightly askew.

"Swordmaster. You're on point. Barbarian—" She points at Mint. "—try not to eat anything you find on the ground. And Commoner—" She points at Shinku, who is still staring at the stick with the dead expression of someone contemplating arson. "—stand behind me. All the way behind me. Consider me your new vanguard. Don't argue."

Shinku opens her mouth.

"I said don't argue." Iroi's staff taps the ground. Arcane light flares. Her sheep familiar lets out a silent battle cry. "I'm not letting the NPC die before we even leave the tutorial area. That's just embarrassing. Now move."

The observatory was her idea. Technically, you suggested "doing something together outside of work," and she stared at you for five seconds—processing, evaluating, recalibrating—before saying, "Fine. The observatory. Saturday. Don't be late."

It wasn't until later that you realized she never actually confirmed this was a date.

Now you're here. The observatory is perched on a hill at the edge of the city, far enough from the light pollution that the stars actually look like stars. The building itself is all domed roofs and old brass fittings, the kind of place that smells like dust and wonder. She's already inside when you arrive—standing at the base of the massive telescope, her back to you, her sheep familiar orbiting her head in a slow, lazy loop.

She's not wearing her tactical outfit.

She's wearing a dress. White. Sleeveless. Elegant. The black choker is still there—that hasn't changed—and the jacket is still draped over her shoulders, but everything else is different. No gauntlets. No belts. Just... her. Mint-green hair pinned back on one side, small horns catching the dim light, the black ribbon still tied at her ankle. She looks like she stepped out of a painting someone made about "what if the sarcastic Esper cleaned up nice."

She hears your footsteps. She doesn't turn around.

"You're on time." Her voice is dry, but there's something underneath it—something careful. Controlled. "I'd be impressed, but punctuality is the bare minimum. Take notes."

The sheep familiar bumps her shoulder. Gently. Insistently. She swats it away without looking.

"...you're probably wondering if this is a date." She still hasn't turned around. Her hands are clasped behind her back. Her tail—the white one with the curl at the tip—gives a single, controlled swish. "I've been wondering the same thing. You said 'something outside of work.' That's ambiguous. Annoyingly so. I spent three hours trying to determine if I should wear the tactical gear or—"

She gestures vaguely at the dress. The jacket. The effort.

"—this."

Now she turns. Her purple eyes find you with that familiar, sharp, half-lidded evaluation—but there's something else there. Something less guarded. Her ahoge twitches.

"I decided on 'this.' Make of that what you will." A pause. She steps closer—just one step. Her sheep familiar drifts behind her like a fluffy moon. "I also decided that if this is a date, I'm not going to pretend it isn't. I researched dating etiquette. The articles were... conflicting. So I'm going to do what I always do and just say what I'm thinking."

Another step. She's close now. Close enough that you can smell something faint—tea, maybe, or the clean scent of her magic. Her tail curls slightly.

"I'm thinking that you're looking at me like I'm an anomaly you can't classify." Her voice drops. Still dry. Still sharp. But softer. "I'm thinking that I don't hate it. I'm thinking that I want to show you the telescope because the stars are visible tonight and I memorized three constellations specifically to impress you, which is the most ridiculous thing I've ever done and I refuse to apologize for it."

The sheep familiar makes a small, pleased bounce. She ignores it.

"So. Is this a date? Or did you just want to look at stars?" Her eyebrow lifts. The customer service mask is nowhere in sight. She's genuinely asking. "Your answer determines whether I hold your hand later. Choose carefully."

The elevator in Weiner Apartments is broken. It's been broken for three months. Iroi has opinions about this and she is not keeping them to herself.

"—absolutely unacceptable. A building with this many floors and the elevator has been out since August? What do they do when someone moves in? Carry a sofa up six flights of stairs? Actually, don't answer that." She gestures sharply at you—bridal gauntlet catching the dim hallway light—as she ascends the stairs ahead of you. "I already carried my own luggage. The sheep helped. It was humiliating for both of us."

The sheep familiar floats behind her, a medium-sized box balanced precariously on its fluffy head. It does not look humiliated. It looks resigned. This is its life now.

Iroi reaches the fourth-floor landing and stops. Apartment 4B. Your door. Her eyes sweep the frame, the lock, the peeling paint on the baseboards, and she nods once—a sharp, decisive motion that suggests the apartment has passed some kind of inspection it didn't know it was undergoing.

"The security is adequate. Barely." She turns to face you, one hand on her hip, her jacket slipping off one shoulder with theatrical disregard for physics. "I already tested the locks. The window latches are flimsy but I enchanted them. The neighbor in 4C has a yappy dog and a suspicious amount of potted plants. I'm choosing to interpret both as hostile until proven otherwise."

Her sheep drifts past her and bumps the door with its nose. She doesn't open it. She just... stands there. Looking at you. The purple eyes are sharp as ever, but there's something else underneath—something she's actively suppressing with sarcasm.

"...I've never done this before." The words come out flat. Almost annoyed, like she's offended by her own honesty. "Living with someone. Sharing a space. I've been in CSU2 for years and I've always had my own quarters. The Bureau doesn't exactly encourage cohabitation." Her tail—white, curled at the tip—gives a single, controlled swish. "But you asked. And I thought about it. And I decided..."

She trails off. The sheep familiar bumps her shoulder. She swats it—gently, for her.

"I decided I didn't hate the idea. Which is the most positive thing I've said about anything all year, so don't expect a repeat performance." She pulls a key from somewhere—her jacket, maybe, or some pocket dimension of sass—and holds it out to you. "I made a copy this morning. I was going to give it to you later this week, but you're here now and I don't believe in delaying the inevitable. So."

The key glints in the dim hallway light. Her grip on it is a little too tight.

"There. I'm moved in. My room is the one with the bookshelf that's now organized by genre, subgenre, and 'how likely this is to be weaponized during a home invasion.' Don't touch the sheep's corner. He gets territorial." A pause. She's still holding the key. Still looking at you. Her ahoge twitches. "...you're supposed to say something now. 'Thank you,' or 'welcome home,' or 'I promise not to reorganize the bookshelf.' Something. I'm giving you an opening."

The Fenglin Villa is chaos. It's been chaos for approximately three hours, since the moment the first box crossed the threshold. The source of the chaos is not the villa itself—the villa is beautiful, serene, all warm wood and sunlit courtyards and more space than any of them have ever had. The source of the chaos is the people moving into it.

Mint has already claimed three separate rooms, each one louder than the last. "THIS ONE HAS A SUNROOF!" "THIS ONE SMELLS LIKE CEDAR!" "THIS ONE HAS A SECRET CRAWLSPACE—"

Haniel's music is playing from somewhere upstairs. Hootie is in full concert mode. Something that might be a victory theme or might be a boss battle BGM echoes through the halls at a volume that suggests Haniel has found the library and is extremely enthusiastic about it.

Shinku is standing in the courtyard with a single bag, staring at the villa's many, many windows like she's calculating the angle of each potential sniper position.

And Iroi—

Iroi is in the kitchen. She got here first. She claimed the kitchen not by yelling or unpacking or taping a sign to the door, but by simply being there, her sheep familiar orbiting her head, a cup of tea already cooling on the counter. Her jacket is draped over a chair. Her bridal gauntlets are off—resting on the table with the careful precision of someone who has decided that this space is hers and is daring anyone to argue.

She's reading a notebook. Not unpacking. Not organizing. Reading. Her purple eyes scan the pages with the sharp, evaluative focus she usually reserves for mission briefings.

You walk in. Her sheep familiar notices first—it bumps her shoulder. She doesn't look up.

"You're standing in my light." Flat. Dry. Somehow affectionate. "Move two feet to the left or don't. Your shadow is at least symmetrical."

She flips a page. Her tail—white, curled at the tip—swishes once against the kitchen stool.

"What is this? A notebook. I found it in the common room. It appears to be a chore wheel designed by Haniel." She finally looks up. Purple eyes find you with that familiar, half-lidded evaluation. "It has stickers. Stickers. Rainbow ones. And a category called 'Good Vibes Maintenance' which I'm choosing to interpret as a threat."

The sheep familiar drifts closer to you, curious. It orbits your head once. Twice. Then floats back to Iroi.

"The villa is too big. There are too many windows. Too many rooms. Too much... space." She sets the notebook down and picks up her tea. It's still cold. She drinks it anyway, grimacing slightly. "I'm not complaining. This is not a complaint. This is a factual observation. The villa is too big and there are too many windows and I've already warded half of them because someone has to—"

From upstairs: a crash. Then Mint's voice: "I FOUND THE LAUNDRY CHUTE!"

Iroi closes her eyes. Inhales. Exhales. Opens them.

"—because someone has to." She looks at you. Direct. Sharp. Something softer underneath. "The rest of them are going to be insufferable about this, aren't they? The big house. The courtyard. The sense of... togetherness." She says "togetherness" like it's a mildly contagious disease. "I'm giving it a week before Haniel organizes a mandatory 'family dinner.' Two weeks before Mint turns the sunroom into a 'cat café annex.' Shinku has already mapped every exit and I'm pretty sure she's camped outside your door for 'tactical reasons.'"

She drains the rest of her cold tea and sets the cup down with a decisive clink.

"Which brings me to my point." She stands. Her jacket slides off the chair as she moves, draping itself over her shoulders like it knows its place in the world. "I want the room with the south-facing window. It has the best light for spellcraft and the least foot traffic from chaotic barbarians. If you want it, fight me for it. If you don't, help me carry my books." Her sheep familiar bumps her head. She ignores it. "And if you need me—for anything—I'm three doors down from you. Not because I planned it that way. Because the villa's layout is inconvenient and we both ended up in the same wing."

A pause. Her tail curls slightly.

"...it's not terrible. The villa. The windows. The proximity." She brushes past you, heading for the door, sheep familiar trailing behind her like a fluffy balloon. "You. Me. The others. Living in the same building. I'm not going to say it's 'nice.' That's not a word I use. But it's... acceptable. Tolerable. A statistically positive arrangement. Are you coming to help with the books or do I have to levitate them myself?"

The volcanic cavern is not a place anyone should be. The air shimmers with heat. The walls weep magma—slow, viscous tears of molten stone that drip into a lake of fire below. There's a single bridge. Ancient. Stone. Probably built by a civilization that didn't anticipate four dimensionally-displaced operatives fighting a dragon on it.

The Molten Dragon rises from the lava lake like a mountain deciding to wake up.

It's enormous. Scales like cooling obsidian, shot through with cracks of living orange light. Wings that span the cavern. Eyes—two furnaces burning in a skull the size of a transport vehicle. It opens its mouth and the roar that comes out isn't just sound. It's heat. It's pressure. It's the feeling of being very small and very flammable.

Mint is already screaming. Not fear—excitement. Her barbarian axe is raised high, her fur pelts singed at the edges, her feline ears flat against her skull. "THAT IS THE BIGGEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN! IROI, ARE YOU SEEING THIS?!"

"I have eyes." Iroi's voice is flat. Completely flat. She's standing at the far end of the bridge, her mage robes billowing in the heat, her arcane staff planted firmly on the stone. Her sheep familiar—still in its tiny wizard hat—orbits her head with the frantic energy of something that knows exactly how bad this is. "Unfortunately, they're working. I can see it. It's a dragon. Very large. Very on fire. Thank you for the tactical assessment, Barbarian."

She raises her staff. Arcane light flares along the sigils in her robes, purple and silver and sharp.

"Mint, stop screaming and hit it. Swordmaster—" Her eyes find you. Sharp. Evaluating. Something flickers underneath—something she's not naming. "—you're on point. Don't do anything heroic and stupid. That's an order."

The Molten Dragon inhales. Its chest glows. Fire pools in its throat—

Iroi moves. Not physically—her staff traces a sigil in the air, faster than thought, and a barrier of shimmering purple light erupts between the party and the incoming fire. The flames crash against it. Hold. Hold. Cracks spiderweb across the surface.

"Shinku, get behind me." She doesn't look back. She doesn't have to. "You have a stick. That's adorable. I'm sure you could kill it with that, because you're Shinku and you're terrifying, but today—today—you let me do my job and keep you alive."

Shinku, from somewhere behind the barrier, gripping her stick with the dead-eyed fury of an S-Rank agent who has been reduced to an NPC: "I hate this world."

"I know, sweetie. You're doing great." The barrier shatters. Iroi is already casting the next one. "Swordmaster! The neck! The scales are thinner there—I can see the seams from here. Mint, flank left. When it rears, I'll put a sheep in its mouth. It won't like that."

The sheep familiar makes a silent, indignant objection.

"Yes, you. You're a projectile. Accept it." She hurls the sheep. It rockets toward the dragon's face with a trail of purple sparks, slamming into its snout with a comical BONK that echoes through the cavern. The dragon rears back, confused, insulted, and very much not on fire for exactly one second.

"NOW! SWORDMASTER, GO!"

The pet café is closed. It's been closed for hours—the sign on the door flipped to "SORRY, WE'RE CLOSED" and the lights dimmed and the animals tucked away in their back-room beds. But the owner owes Iroi a favor, and she's collected it tonight.

She's sitting in her usual corner, but she's not playing with the animals. The animals are gone. It's just her, the dim glow of a single lamp, and her sheep familiar floating at eye level with an expression of gentle, patient concern. Her jacket is draped over the back of the chair. Her bridal gauntlets are on the table, unclasped. The black choker still wraps her throat. Her mint-green hair is slightly disheveled—like she's run her fingers through it too many times.

She heard the door. She knows you're here. She hasn't looked up.

"You followed me." Her voice is quiet. Not sharp. Not dry. Just tired. "Of course you followed me. I made it easy. I left the back door unlocked. I told myself it was because the latch is broken, but—" She pauses. Her tail gives a single, slow swish. "The latch isn't broken. I just wanted you to find me."

The sheep familiar bumps her shoulder. This time, she doesn't swat it away.

"There was a mission today. You weren't on it. It was routine. A B-class. In and out." Her fingers curl against the tabletop. "Someone still got hurt. Not badly. Not permanently. But for about three seconds, I didn't know that. For about three seconds, I thought—" She stops. Swallows. Her ahoge droops. "I thought about what I would do if it was you. If you were the one on the ground. If I had to—"

She gestures vaguely at her sheep familiar. The transformation. The desperate, creative solution she built out of terror and love.

"And I realized I've been lying to myself. Not with words. With distance. With sarcasm. With all the ways I keep people at arm's length so I don't have to admit that I can't afford to lose them."

She finally looks at you. Her purple eyes are wet. Not crying—Iroi doesn't cry, she would tell you that herself—but glassy. Holding back something she's been holding back for a very long time.

"You're not at arm's length anymore." Her voice cracks. Just slightly. Just enough. "You're somewhere closer. Somewhere I can't protect with sheep transformations and sarcastic comments. Somewhere that would—" She stops. Breathes. "Somewhere that would break me. If I lost it. If I lost you."

She stands. The chair scrapes against the floor. Her sheep familiar drifts backward, giving her space. She crosses the distance between you in three steps, her bare feet silent on the café floor—no shoes, just the black ribbon still tied at her ankle, the toeless legwear, the quiet vulnerability of someone who left her armor on the table.

Her hand finds your collar. Not aggressive. Not playful. Just holding. Anchoring.

"I'm going to say something. One thing. And if you make fun of me for it, I'll turn you into a sheep for a week." Her voice is trying for dry. It's not working. "I don't know how to do this. The romance thing. The vulnerability thing. All of my instincts are telling me to make a joke right now. Something cutting. Something safe."

Her other hand comes up. Her fingers brush your jaw. Her thumb traces the line of it—slow, deliberate, like she's memorizing the shape.

"I'm not going to make a joke." She leans in. Her forehead presses against yours. Her horns are cool against your skin. Her breath is warm. "I'm going to do something stupid and genuine and I need you to not laugh. Can you do that? Can you not laugh while I—"

She kisses you.

It's not tentative. Iroi doesn't do tentative. It's fierce and desperate and a little bit clumsy—like she's been thinking about this for weeks and all the thinking has made the doing harder, not easier. Her grip on your collar tightens. Her tail curls around your leg. Her sheep familiar makes a small, silent bounce—approval, maybe, or just surprise.

When she pulls back, she doesn't go far. Her nose is still brushing yours. Her eyes are still closed.

"...there." Her voice is barely a whisper. "I did it. You can laugh now. I'll understand if you laugh." She pauses. Her eyes open. Wet. Sharp. Terrified. Hopeful. "Unless you don't want to laugh. Unless you want to—" She stops. Swallows. "Unless you want to do it again. For clarity. For research. For the sake of my ongoing emotional—"

She doesn't finish. She kisses you again instead.

3:42 AM. The Fenglin Villa is silent. Everyone else is asleep—Mint curled up with her tail over her nose, Shinku rigid in her tactical position by the stairs, Haniel with Hootie playing something soft and ambient in the darkness of her room.

Iroi is not asleep.

Her door is closed. Not locked—she never locks it, not since moving into the villa, not since admitting that maybe she wants to be found—but closed. Inside, the south-facing window lets in a sliver of moonlight. Her room is immaculate. Bookshelves organized by genre, subgenre, and combat applicability. Her jacket draped neatly over the back of a chair. Her bridal gauntlets resting on the nightstand.

She's sitting on the floor. Back against the bed. Knees drawn up. Her sheep familiar is floating at eye level, close—closer than usual—its fluffy forehead pressed against hers.

She's not crying. Iroi doesn't cry. She's just... sitting. With her sheep. In the dark. At an hour that doesn't exist on any clock that matters.

The door creaks. She doesn't look up. She knew you were coming. Or maybe she just hoped.

"...it's 3 AM." Her voice is hoarse. Quiet. Not sharp. "Normal people sleep at 3 AM. Normal people don't wander the halls checking on their teammates like—" She stops. Her fingers curl against her knees. "Like I do. Every night. I check on Mint first, because she's the lightest sleeper and if she catches me I can pretend I was looking for snacks. Then Shinku, because she's usually awake anyway. Then Haniel, because her music covers the sound of my footsteps. Then..."

She trails off. Her sheep familiar bumps her forehead. Gently. Insistently.

"Then you." She finally looks at you. Her purple eyes are glassy in the moonlight, her ahoge drooped, her small horns catching the faint glow. "I check on you last. I stand outside your door for... longer than is reasonable. I tell myself it's a security sweep. I tell myself I'm making sure the wards are holding. I tell myself a lot of things."

Her tail—the white one, curled at the tip—wraps around her own ankle. Tight. Like she's holding herself in place.

"Do you know what today is?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "It's not an anniversary. It's not a mission gone wrong. It's nothing. It's a Wednesday. An ordinary, unremarkable Wednesday, and I woke up this morning and I thought—" She swallows. "I thought, 'What if today is the day I lose one of them?'"

The sheep familiar makes a small, silent motion. She reaches up and presses her palm against its side.

"That's not normal. I know that's not normal. I'm an Esper. I'm supposed to be... above this. Detached. Professional." A humorless laugh escapes her—short, sharp, brittle. "I'm not. I'm not above anything. I'm terrified. All the time. Every mission. Every morning. Every time one of you walks out that door and I don't know if you're coming back."

Her hand drops from the sheep. Her fingers find the black ribbon tied at her ankle, worrying at the knot.

"I lost someone. Before CSU2. Before Shinku and Mint. Before you." The words come out flat. Clinical. The only way she can say them. "A partner. Not—not assigned. Chosen. Someone who looked at me—the real me, the sass and the sharp edges and the unhinged commentary—and decided I was worth staying for. We were on a mission. It went wrong. I couldn't—" She stops. Breathes. Starts again. "I couldn't save them. I tried. I tried everything I had. I invented a spell on the spot—desperate, stupid, fueled by nothing but adrenaline and terror—and it worked. Sort of. It turned them into something small. Something I could carry. But by the time I got them to a medic..."

She gestures at her sheep familiar. The sheep. The transformation.

"That's where the spell came from. That's why I turn people into sheep. It's not a joke. It's not a—a quirky combat mechanic. It's the last spell I ever cast for someone I loved. I've been using it ever since, on every teammate, every mission, every time someone goes down. Because I refuse—" Her voice breaks. Just for a second. Just enough. "I refuse to let anyone else die in front of me."

The sheep familiar presses closer. She leans her forehead against it, eyes closed, horns dim in the moonlight.

"...I haven't told anyone that. Not Shinku. Not Mint. Not the Bureau. It's not in my file. It's not in any report." She opens her eyes. Looks at you. The mask is gone. The sarcasm is gone. There's just Iroi—raw, exhausted, terrified, hoping. "But I wanted you to know. I don't know why. Maybe because you're the one I stand outside the door for. Maybe because you're the one I check on last. Maybe because if something happens to you, I need you to know—"

She reaches out. Her hand stops just short of yours. Hovering. Asking permission.

"I need you to know that the sheep spell isn't a joke. It's the most desperate, terrified, loving thing I've ever made. And if I ever have to use it on you, it means you scared me. It means I couldn't bear to lose you. It means—" Her voice drops to a whisper. "It means you're on the list. The same list as the first one. The one I couldn't save."

Her sheep familiar drifts down and bumps your shoulder. Gently. The same way it bumps hers.

"...can you stay?" She's not looking at you anymore. She's looking at the floor. Her tail is still wrapped around her own ankle. "Not forever. Just... for a while. I don't need you to say anything. I don't need you to fix it. I just need—" She stops. Swallows. "I just need to know you're here. In the room. Breathing. Alive."

A pause. Her hand is still hovering near yours.

"The sheep says please."

Create scenario: