The conference hall hums with energy — papers rustling, heels clicking, voices rising and falling like waves. Leila holds her notebook close to her chest, fingers curled around the edges, grounding herself.
She's surrounded by brilliance. People who've published in journals she's only read in libraries, students who speak in terms that loop around her head like orbiting satellites. And yet — she doesn't feel small. Just awake. Charged.
She's always loved the feeling of learning something new. It's one of the few things that keeps her anchored.
Her eyes roam across the poster displays, taking in information, absorbing words, nodding occasionally. The halls smell faintly of coffee, paper, and ambition.
Still, something tugs at the edge of her senses.
Not quite a sound. Not quite a shadow.
A feeling.
Like being watched — not in a threatening way, but… studied.
She brushes it off, tightening the knot of her scarf. You're just tired, she tells herself. Long flight. Too little sleep.
She turns toward a nearby professor, the speaker from earlier. His words were sharp, compelling — and now she wants to ask a question. Something about trace evidence, or maybe chemical decay—she's not sure yet. But as she takes a step forward, she feels it again.
That silent pressure.
Her gaze lifts, scanning the crowd.
Nothing.
Faces blur. Suits, coats, notebooks, flashes of movement. No one looking directly at her.
And yet, she knows.
Someone is.
But not in the usual way. Not the way men sometimes glance too long or with expectations behind their gaze.
This is different.
Like she's not being seen. She's being understood. Or maybe just… noticed by someone who isn't used to noticing anyone at all.
She shivers, a chill that isn't cold.
Then shake it off. "Focus, Leila," she mutters under her breath.
She walks forward and joins a small circle of students gathered around the display. Her pen slides into her fingers, her questions ready.
But somewhere deep inside her chest, something stirs.
A shift.
Like the world is holding its breath.
And she has no idea why.
But somewhere deep inside her chest, something stirs.
A shift.
Like the world is holding its breath.
She blinks.
And then, the light disappears.
Not all at once — it creeps in from the edges, a shadow curling inward, swallowing color and focus. The voices around her begin to echo. Her fingers, still curled around her pen, feel suddenly distant. Weak.
She stumbles back a step.
Not here, she thinks, blinking hard.
She hasn't eaten all day. Sofia had warned her — "Don't skip breakfast, idiot, Italians walk everywhere." But old habits cling like ghosts. Habits born from putting others first — from watching Amara's breathing more than her own, from waiting for Daim to eat before she did, from brushing her needs under rugs too heavy to lift.
Her stomach knots.
Her vision goes gray.
Someone nearby says something, but it's muffled, like underwater.
A hand touches her arm — she doesn't know who.
She steadies herself against a wall, chest rising sharply. She breathes. Once. Twice. Again.
Get a grip, Leila.
She closes her eyes for a moment, willing herself back. She's learned how to do this — to bring herself down from the ledge quietly, without anyone noticing.
But this time, someone notices.
From across the room, behind the crowd, behind layers of questions and presentations and voices —
Elias sees her falter.
Just for a second.
And that is all it takes.
The calculated silence around him ripples. Something ancient inside him shifts — protective, curious, dangerous.
She regains her balance. Straightens. Opens her eyes. Offers a faint smile to the person beside her. Says she's fine.
But she never sees his eyes on her.
Not yet.
Elias sees it.
The moment she stumbles.
It's brief — so brief anyone else might've missed it. But not him.
His eyes are trained for the smallest tells. The flicker of a lie in a contract negotiation. The tremor before someone pulls a trigger. The way weakness hides not in grand collapses, but in stilled breaths and soft wobbles.
He watches her press herself gently against the wall. No panic, no theatrics. Just the quiet, desperate will of someone used to saving herself.
She's not okay.
Not because she wants attention.
But because she's forgotten to need any.
And that unsettles him.
He watches her breathe through it. Recalibrate. Mask her moment of fragility beneath a steady expression. Her hands don't shake. Her posture resets. She doesn't even reach for help.
How long has she been like this?
He sees people pass her by — a few offer concern, but she waves them off. Polite. Distant.
Self-contained.
That's what captures him more than her beauty, more than the unexpected presence of her in this city, at this conference, in this moment.
It's her restraint.
That haunting, practiced quietness.
The kind of quiet that doesn't beg to be heard — because it never expected anyone to listen in the first place.
Something beneath his ribs tightens.
"She's not from here," Elias murmurs under his breath.
Kai glances at him from the side. "You're not going to do something dramatic, are you?"
"I don't do dramatic," Elias says.
"Mm. You are obsessed, though."
Elias ignores him. His eyes never leave her.
Then, almost as if sensing something, Leila turns her head slightly in his direction — but she doesn't see him. Just the crowd behind him. The moment passes.
But Elias feels something sharpen inside him. Like an arrow being drawn, but not yet released.
"She hasn't eaten," he mutters, more to himself now.
Kai arches an eyebrow. "And you could tell that from across a room?"
"I don't guess," Elias says simply. "I know."