Phei flat-out refused.
Same as always. Same as every other time the universe tried to drop a grand piano made of cosmic horror onto his shoulders and expected him to catch it while grinning like an idiot.
He simply... declined the invitation to panic.
Phei walked out of that restaurant with calm, deliberate strides, as though he had decided the apocalypse could kindly fuck off until after dessert.
Eira floated beside him in perfect silence. Wings folded, with none of her usual chirps or sarcastic commentary—none of her ancient wisdom delivered in that deceptively sweet voice that always had razor blades hidden underneath.
She knew this quiet. Ten years she had watched him, and in the time she had spent actually speaking with him, she had learned the signs.
When Phei went silent like this, it wasn't emptiness.
It was pressure.
