He stayed bent against the street lamp longer than he meant to.
Long enough for people nearby to start noticing.
In Ward Five, unusual things rarely remained private for long.
One person approached Shura first.
Then another.
The moment he staggered against the street lamp, the movement around him shifted. People slowed. Eyes turned. Voices lowered into cautious concern mixed with curiosity.
Within seconds, he found himself loosely surrounded.
Not trapped.
Observed.
"Hey, kid… you alright?"
A rough-looking worker leaned slightly toward him, keeping enough distance to avoid seeming threatening.
Near the edge of the small crowd, another man casually drifted closer. His hand moved subtly toward Shura's coat pocket—
Then stopped.
Too many people watching.
Shura kept one hand against the cold metal pole, breathing unevenly.
Please hold on.
Don't fall again.
The pain behind his eyes pulsed once harder.
He said nothing.
Another passerby frowned.
"What happened to him?"
The worker glanced over Shura carefully. The dust on the sleeves. The exhaustion beneath his eyes. The expensive coat worn like someone who had forgotten he was wearing it.
"…He's fine," the man answered after a moment. "Probably just tired."
Shura slowly straightened himself.
His fingers slipped from the lamp.
"…I'm fine," he said quietly. "Thank you."
He adjusted his coat slightly, then exhaled through his nose.
"…I think I need to figure out where I am first."
The worker blinked.
"What?"
But Shura had already started walking again.
A few steps later—
The worker looked like he wanted to walk away.
But something about Shura made him hesitate.
"Wait."
Shura stopped and glanced back.
The same worker scratched awkwardly at his jaw.
"…Want some tea?"
Steam curled from a nearby metal stall.
Shura shook his head lightly.
"I'm in a hurry. Sorry."
The man reached out suddenly and grabbed his arm.
Not aggressively.
Firmly.
Shura's eyes narrowed for half a second.
The worker looked at him strangely. Almost carefully.
Then, after a short silence, he let go.
"…Alright."
Shura resumed walking.
Three steps later, he slowed slightly.
The pain in his skull had weakened.
Not vanished.
But dulled.
His breathing steadied.
Shura glanced back over his shoulder.
The man was already walking away into the crowd again.
Normal posture.
Normal steps.
And yet—
Something felt off.
Not dangerous.
Contained.
Like someone forcing themselves to remain ordinary.
Shura watched him disappear between the moving crowds beneath the Beacon glow.
"…Zenkyou. That girl. Liyo."
His voice lowered thoughtfully.
"And now him."
His fingers slipped inside his coat.
The Vanguard badge rested cold against his palm.
He pulled it out slowly and stared at the metal surface reflecting fractured light from the streets.
Then flipped a Copp coin upward with his thumb.
"And this."
The coin spun once before dropping neatly back into his hand.
"…Or maybe it's coincidence."
The streets grew louder again as he walked.
But something inside him remained unsettled.
Too many strange encounters.
Too many people watching him too carefully.
Zenkyou.
Liyo.
The worker near the tea stall.
None of them felt connected.
And somehow, that bothered him more.
But even he didn't fully believe that anymore.
—
The clothing shop sat quietly between two narrow stone buildings beneath rows of hanging Beacon lamps.
By the time he reached the clothes shop area, the Beacon glow had shifted warmer overhead.
The heavier industrial noise of the lower wards faded behind him, replaced by quieter streets lined with older storefronts and hanging lantern-signs swaying gently in the heated air.
Shura pushed the door open and stepped inside.
A small bell rang overhead.
Nothing about the place looked important.
Faded fabrics hung from overhead lines while folded clothing filled old wooden shelves worn smooth by years of use. Most of the outfits looked practical rather than decorative—light inner layers, reinforced belts, dark travel coats, loose sleeves tightened near the wrists.
Worker clothing.
Traveler clothing.
Deep clothing.
Shura touched one of the darker outer layers carefully.
The material felt rougher than anything from the Surface. Heavier too.
Built to survive long use rather than impress people.
"Cheap ones are on the lower shelves," the shopkeeper muttered without looking up.
Shura nodded quietly and moved through the narrow aisles.
Only then did the woman behind the counter finally glance toward him properly.
Her eyes stopped immediately at the silver-threaded coat.
Then slowly moved lower.
Dust along the sleeves.
Fraying near the cuffs.
Signs of actual use.
"…Long walk?" she asked.
Shura looked down at himself briefly.
"…I only just noticed."
The woman folded another piece of fabric calmly.
"Bathhouse is two doors down," she said. "You can wash before trying things on."
Shura hesitated slightly.
"…Does it cost extra?"
That finally made her look up fully.
"Public steam doesn't."
A short pause followed.
"Private rooms do."
"…Then public is fine."
Shura turned toward the exit.
"Wait."
He stopped near the shelves.
For the first time, the woman wasn't looking at him.
She was looking at the coat itself.
"…Can I examine that?" she asked quietly.
Her eyes lingered on the silver threading woven through the fabric.
"I'll give you clothes for free."
Shura's expression sharpened slightly.
Velorin.
Dangerous.
The woman noticed the shift immediately.
"I know what you're thinking," she said quickly. "Only Velorin members usually wear silver-threaded coats."
Her fingers tightened slightly around the folded cloth in her hands.
"But there's no law against studying one."
Shura stayed silent.
Then he noticed it clearly.
Not greed.
Not admiration.
Hunger.
Her eyes kept drifting back toward the silver threading even when she tried not to look.
The kind people carried when they wanted something badly enough to destroy themselves for it.
The woman lowered her gaze.
"I won't tell anyone," she said softly. "I'll sign anything if needed."
Her voice thinned slightly near the end.
"If trouble comes… you can blame me."
Silence settled briefly between them.
Then Shura smiled faintly.
Tired. Uneasy.
"…I'm still deciding if that's the part worrying me."
The woman stared at him for a second before quietly looking away again.
Shura stepped toward the door leading deeper into the bathhouse section.
Before entering, he glanced back at her once more.
Then smiled lightly.
Because wanting something impossible—
wasn't unfamiliar to him anymore.
—
Warm steam drifted heavily through the bathhouse halls.
Pipes overhead released slow waves of heat into the air while water echoed faintly somewhere deeper inside the structure.
The moment the door closed behind him, the noise of the city disappeared.
Silence remained.
Real silence.
Shura stepped toward the large mirror fixed against the wall.
For a few seconds, he simply stared at his own reflection through the fogged glass.
Tired eyes.
A face that still felt strangely distant from himself.
Slowly, he lifted one hand.
Then tapped lightly against his own cheek.
The reflection copied him perfectly.
And still felt delayed somehow.
Like he was looking at someone attempting to become him.
Shura lowered his hand slowly.
Water droplets slid down the fogged glass between them.
"…Who were you before?" he asked softly.
The mirror gave him no answer.