No one tells them anything.
That is how Juni knows something has begun.
It starts with repetition. Faces he recognizes from earlier meetings appear in places they don't belong—lingering near the studio entrance, seated two rows behind him during a lecture that has nothing to do with his program. The encounters are brief, plausible, forgettable on their own.
Together, they form a pattern.
Juni doesn't say anything at first. He waits to see if it stops.
It doesn't.
By the end of the week, he has counted four coincidences too many. A clipboard once. A tablet another time. No questions. No introductions.
Observation without engagement.
Across campus, Elian feels it differently. A faculty member who used to greet him warmly becomes careful—measured in tone, distant in language. A meeting request is postponed without explanation. A conversation ends sooner than expected.
Temperature change.
Elian recognizes it immediately. Not scrutiny—tracking.
"They've opened a soft file," he says that evening, voice low.
Juni looks up from his sketchbook. "Soft?"
"No contact. No allegations. Just data collection," Elian replies. "Behavioral, procedural, associative."
Juni swallows. "About me?"
"About us," Elian corrects.
The word us lands heavily. Juni feels the instinctive pull to minimize, to compartmentalize himself from Elian's world. He resists it.
"They haven't done anything wrong," Juni says.
"That's the point," Elian replies. "Neither have we."
They sit in silence, the apartment familiar but altered by the knowledge that somewhere, someone is watching without speaking.
Later that night, Juni notices someone he doesn't recognize standing near the studio door as he leaves. The man doesn't follow him. Doesn't look at him for long.
Just notes.
Juni feels the weight settle—not fear, exactly. Awareness.
Soft files don't demand response.
They wait.