Pologies. Had family over yesterday and couldn't post the chapter, so here it is now.

  ---Jason---

  I shouldn't have fallen asleep on Grace.

  The thought cuts through my concentration like Grace's tacticle knife as I arrow through the emergency contact information spreadsheet on my laptop screen. Another incorrect number reads back at me, digits that make no geographical sense. I highlight the offending entry and cross-reference it against my master database I made when I finally got morbidly curious enough to start checking where the fuck these people would have us call if they, say, got a piece of re-bar shoved up their ass, but the piece was like two feet long, because Mike said he saw that happen once, though not at Northern Edge. fingers move automatically across the keyboard while my brain churns over last night's colossal fuck-up. I don't look into, well, why the fuck Grace didn't promptly just stab me. Preferibly in a place that wouldn't bleed too much, as a direct result. Also, how the fuck do you start that conversation? A, it's Grace, so least she won't, say, laugh at me if I try it?

  The number looks like it should connect to somewhere in Iqaluit, up in Nunavut, but according to the student's registration form it's supposed to reach his grandmother in Hamilton. How the hell do you even get a number that wrong? Tapping a little more, I grunt as I realize that in fact, this particular combination would ring through to some poor bastard trying to sleep in the Northwest Territories at three in the morning instead of Grandma Betty who makes excellent apple pie and lives twenty minutes from downtown Hamilton, and yes, Betty is actually her name, I assume this person knows her Grandmother's name better than her emergency contact because this fucking generation. Well. She was born after 2000, so.

  Christ, Grace doesn't deserve to get drooled on.

  Muttering something rather un-flattering about various things as my focus fractures completely, I remove my headphones and put them aside before leaning back in my chair, the familiar creak of aged office furniture doing nothing to settle my mounting anxiety. My hands find my face, rubbing at eyes that have been working perfectly for almost a week now but still feel foreign sometimes, like I borrowed them from someone else and forgot to give them back. Grace's vigger application had been successful—my vision now exceeds normal human parameters—but twenty-eight years of blindness leaves its mark in ways that go deeper than simple sight. Also, you know, she said flat-out that if it hadn't, she'd of taken me out into the back and opened my throat, so there's that? I hope she would have looked after Dawson, at least? Dog doesn't deserve to starve because I didn't accept space magic I never heard of before, you know?

  I shouldn't have fucking fallen asleep on her shoulder like she was some comfortable pillow instead of a woman who's mentioned biting off fingers as casual conversation. The whole evening comes back in fragments—discovering that War of Great Houses game on my laptop when Grace was reading her book, both of us getting interested in the strategy simulation, talking about faction mechanics and tactical depth until I saw myself on the screen, a bunch of other stuff involveing shoes and children with too-old eyes and cookies, then apparently I just passed out against her.

  And then what? Then I apparently decided to use Grace as furniture while my subconscious did whatever embarrassing shit it damn well pleased. Dad had to move me off her shoulder when he got home with the groceries, and knowing me, knowing my complete inability to maintain any dignity while unconscious, I probably drooled all over her.

  The woman's been nothing but patient with my bumbling attempts to help her adapt to life in Toronto, teaching me things about feathersticks and general survival that I never knew I needed to learn. She'd gotten genuinely interested in that strategy game, approaching it with the same analytical precision she brings to everything, treating fictional tactical scenarios like legitimate strategic problems. And my brilliant contribution to our developing friendship is to use her as a human pillow while my subconscious unleashes whatever embarrassing bodily functions it damn well pleases. Least I don't talk in my sleep, so there's that, at least?

  But here's what makes it worse, the thought that's been gnawing away at my brain since I woke up this morning: Grace can't hurt me because of that fucking death oath. I can command her to do one significant thing—though I flatly refuse to command her to do anything. But what if Grace not telling me to fuck off is directly because she thinks that would harm me, and as such, physically can't due to the oath? After all, well most oaths and stuff have some bit of leeway, like, if Grace thinks telling me to say, not fall asleep on her will harm me then she wouldn't be able to do it because in her mind, and in her oath, that would constitute harm, which the oath does not allow.

  The thought disgusts me. I hope I'm a decent fucking human being, but Grace literally cannot harm me due to the death oath. She's compelled to obey if I gave her a command. What if her silence this morning, her complete normalcy about the whole situation, isn't acceptance but some kind of compulsion? What if she wanted to push me away, to establish boundaries, which she has every right to do, but couldn't because the oath prevented her from doing anything that might count as harming me in her mind?

  I don't know exactly how these death oaths work—Grace mentioned them briefly but never got into the mechanics—but the basic idea is terrifying enough. I saved her life by bringing her inside when she was freezing, so now she's bound to me. She can't hurt me, and I could command her to do something significant if I wanted to. Which I absolutely fucking don't, but the power imbalance is there what ever we might want. Which is why, aside from the fact that I've known the woman for, just over a week now? I wouldn't even if I wanted to, well. Saying try anything is the kind of thing you'd be right in answering by stabbing the individual who said it in a soft bit with a fork, but. Well. Grace is a woman, and a woman who, I think, sees me as someone, well. No, fuck that I'm not going down that rabbit hole at fucking work. Dateing's off the table because of power imbalinces and time spent, and now I need something to distract me from this entire clusterfuck.

  I push back from the desk with enough force to send my chair rolling halfway across the small office. Standing triggers a symphony of pops and cracks from joints that have been locked in the same position for the better part of three hours. My lower back protests with a sharp twinge that reminds me I'm not twenty anymore, despite what my recent adventures with Grace in featherstick creation and TTRPG simulated combat might suggest about my capabilities.

  Coffee. Coffee will either make me feel better or at least provide enough caffeine-induced distraction that I stop obsessing over my latest social disaster. The break room beckons from down the hallway, promising the bitter salvation of whatever industrial-strength brew Carter inevitably makes when he arrives before dawn to review medical protocols.

  The hallway stretches ahead of me, and I navigate it with the careful precision that twenty-eight years of blindness burned into my muscle memory. Even with perfect vision now, I still find myself counting steps, listening for the subtle acoustic changes that indicate doorways and obstacles. Old habits, especially ones that kept you from walking into walls for nearly three decades, die hard, even if I had a cane to stop the walking face-first into walls bit for most of my time here, that guy stepping on it doesn't count since it wasn't technically his fault.

  The break room door stands slightly ajar, letting the rich aroma of fresh coffee drift into the hallway. Carter's work, no doubt. The man approaches coffee preparation with the same methodical precision he brings to field medicine, measuring and timing everything with military accuracy. Inside, I find him seated at the small round table that serves as our informal meeting space, hands wrapped around a steaming mug, steam curling up to frame his weathered features.

  He looks up as I enter, those sharp eyes taking in what must be a fairly obvious display of internal turmoil. Carter's always been good at reading people, probably a leftover skill from his Army medic days when someone's emotional state could mean the difference between life and death in a trauma situation.

  "Morning, Jason." His voice carries that familiar clipped precision, though there's an undertone of concern. "You look like hell. Coffee's fresh if you want some."

  I nod my thanks and move toward the counter where the coffee machine sits like a shrine to caffeinated salvation. The routine of pouring provides momentary distraction—watching the dark liquid fill my mug, adding just enough milk to cut the industrial strength but not enough to dilute the medicinal properties. Carter waits in patient silence, and I can feel his attention like a weight between my shoulder blades.

  "Something happen?" he asks when I finally turn around, hot mug in hand, nowhere left to hide behind simple tasks.

  I settle into the chair across from him with a grunt, wrapping my fingers around the ceramic warmth, and let the whole mortifying story spill out in a rush of words that probably makes me sound like an overthinking teenager instead of a grown man. Then again, I look at 19 year-olds and 20-year-olds as overthinking teenagers, and Carter's what, 40 there abouts?

  "Yesterday Grace and I discovered this strategy game on my laptop—War of Great Houses. Some kind of faction-based simulation that got both of us interested." The coffee burns slightly going down, a welcome distraction from the humiliation of having to voice this out loud. "Grace has this incredible tactical mind, and she was approaching the game mechanics like legitimate strategic problems. We spent what felt like hours talking about faction strengths, resource management, strategic depth." No need to explain that I ran away after seeing my own face on the screen, considering Worthy's played the dam game Carter and Dave and Mike probably have too, especially if it's a card game after all.

  Carter nods, encouraging me to continue without interrupting the flow. Good technique—probably something they taught him about getting information from wounded soldiers who might clam up if pressed too hard. Or, you know, just Carter being Carter.

  "It was actually nice watching her analyze the different factions. She connected military fiction she'd been reading to the game's tactical concepts, treated the whole thing like a legitimate learning opportunity instead of just entertainment." I take another sip of coffee, using the pause to gather courage for the next part. "after a bunch of other stuff, this kid came by selling girl-guide cookies in the middle of a snowstorm, But then at some point I guess I just passed out against Grace's shoulder, and next thing I know I'm waking up this morning in my own bed with no memory of getting there."

  "Ah." Carter's expression shifts into something that might be amusement if he were the type to show emotion like that. "Let me guess. You fell asleep on her."

  The accuracy of his assessment makes me wince. "Christ, Carter, I used the woman like a pillow. Someone who's mentioned casual violence as a matter of course, someone who's still figuring out how basic trust works, and my brilliant contribution to our developing, what ever the fuck were developing is to drool all over her shoulder while unconscious."

  "Did she seem upset about it?"

  "No," I admit reluctantly. "She seemed completely normal. But that's almost worse, you know? Grace doesn't hide her reactions to things. If something bothers her, she tells you directly. The fact that she's not saying anything makes me think she's just... dealing with it because she doesn't have other options."

  "Because of the death oath," Carter says, and it's not a question.

  I nod miserably. "That's what's eating at me. Grace can't hurt me, Carter. Physically can't, because of this death oath thing she mentioned. And I could command her to do something significant if I wanted to, though I absolutely refuse to do that. But what if Grace not telling me to fuck off is directly because she can't? What if pushing me away or establishing boundaries would count as harming me under the oath's rules because she defines emotional harm as, well, harm?"

  I lean forward, the full weight of my concern spilling out. "I don't know exactly how these oaths work—Grace has mentioned them but never explained the mechanics. All I know is she's bound to me because I saved her life, she can't harm me, and I have some kind of authority over her that I have zero intention of using. But what if her silence about me falling asleep on her isn't acceptance but literal inability to express discomfort? Or, you know, she's concerned I'll get mad and, I don't know. Kick her out or something?" I slump.

  Carter considers this while taking a measured sip from his mug. The silence stretches between us, comfortable in the way that comes from years of working together, understanding that sometimes important conversations require time to develop properly.

  "You said Grace has mentioned these oaths before?" he asks eventually. "How did she describe them?"

  I think back to our conversations, trying to remember Grace's exact words. "Not in detail. Just that they exist in her homeland, that she's bound to me because I brought her inside when she was freezing. She can't harm me, and I could make one significant request of her. But she always talks about it like it's just how things work, like everyone should understand the rules."

  "But you don't understand the rules."

  "No." The word comes out heavier than I intended. "And that's the problem. I don't know what constitutes harm under this oath. I don't know what my so-called authority actually means aside from the fact I can command Grace to do one signifikant thing. I don't know if Grace's behavior toward me is genuine or magically compelled." Before: "well, in this case, anyway. She flat out told me she was being genuine about, say, teaching me feathersticks. Only because I asked, but still." I shrug.

  Carter sets down his mug with deliberate precision, the small sound drawing my attention to his face. Something has shifted in his expression, the professional neutrality replaced by something more personal, more concerned. I think. I don't really get, you know, eyes. Or eyebrows.

  "Jason," he says quietly, "Grace didn't bring this up this morning at all?"

  I shake my head. "Not a word. She was getting ready for her run when I left for work, same as always. Asked about my schedule, mentioned she might stop by the library later and asked for any protocolls she needed to follow, completely normal conversation."

  "And if she had an issue with what happened, would she tell you?"

  "Yes," I say slowly. "Grace doesn't do subtle. If something bothered her, she'd tell me directly. No games, no passive-aggressive hints, just straightforward explanation of the problem and usually a practical solution unless she physically couldn't." I grimace. "It's why, well."

  "Then maybe consider that she's telling you exactly what she thinks through her actions. Or in this case, her lack of actions."

  I want to argue, to point out all the ways Grace might be managing her reactions to avoid conflict, but Carter continues before I can marshal my objections.

  "Look, I'm not a people person," Carter says, his tone shifting into something less formal, more personal. "I'm not particularly gentle either. Good? Perhaps. Patient? No. So I'll try to explain this in the best way I can."

  I wait, recognizing Carter's particular brand of blunt honesty coming.

  "Grace is honest and straightforward, right? Direct communication, no bullshit, tells you exactly what she thinks about everything from air fryers to emergency contact procedures." He gestures toward the paperwork scattered across the table between us. "If she has concerns, she voices them. You've said that yourself multiple times since she showed up. We've all seen it, during her demonstration here and at the game later."

  "But the oath—"

  "Grace didn't bring up anything this morning?" Carter repeats. I shake my head. Grace didn't mention it at all, and, well. I shrug.

  Carter sits in silence, thinking for a while before asking, "Well, Grace. If she had an issue, wouldn't she, from what you know of her, tell you? She is honest, straightforward, and if she has concerns, she would inform you."

  The logic is sound, but I find myself shaking my head. "But what if the oath prevents—"

  "Before," Carter's tone softens slightly, "let me tell you something. I've done stuff over the years, things I thought were normal. Revenna told me, well first that she asked me not to, as she did not like it in regards to her. Grace is not Revenna, but. It's your choice, you know Grace better than I do, but just a suggestion."

  I huff, recognizing that most of this is probably me overthinking shit, but the concern remains. The power imbalance, the possibility that Grace's silence comes from magical compulsion rather than genuine acceptance, the fact that I just don't know. Can't know, if I'm doing something fundimentally wrong.

  "Thanks, Carter," I manage, the gratitude genuine despite my lingering worries. "I needed to hear that, even if I'm probably being an idiot about the whole thing."

  "Probably," he agrees with characteristic bluntness, but his expression carries enough warmth to take the sting out of the assessment.

  I finish my coffee in comfortable silence, letting the caffeine and Carter's practical wisdom work their combined magic on my overthinking brain. The emergency contact spreadsheet awaits my return, numbers that really should lead to grandmother's houses but mostly probably lead to arctic research stations and people who just want to be left alone, but somehow the prospect of returning to that particular administrative nightmare feels manageable now.

  Grace is direct. Grace is honest. Grace would tell me if I'd crossed a line or made her uncomfortable. Unless the oath prevents it, a voice in my head whispers, but I push that thought away. Sometimes the simplest explanation really is the correct one, even when your brain insists on constructing elaborate disaster scenarios instead of accepting basic evidence. Also, I can just ask Grace when I get home since she'll at least tell me if I just ask her, right?

  I stand, stretching joints that have settled into new configurations during our conversation. "Better get back to fixing whoever decided a Hamilton grandmother lives in Iqaluit."

  Carter's smile follows me out of the break room, and I make my way back down the hallway, still counting steps out of habit despite perfect vision, still listening for acoustic changes that might indicate obstacles.

  Back in my office, the laptop screen glows with waiting spreadsheets and contact information that needs sorting into categories that make geographical sense. I settle into my chair, crack my knuckles, and dive back into the oddly satisfying work of connecting emergency numbers to actual emergency contacts instead of random Arctic phone booths, and yes, one, they still have at least one, and two, I found a number, took me fourty-five minutes to track the booth down, that would call an arctic phone booth. Even if it isn't blue, but you can't have everything.

  Grace is fine. Grace would tell me if she wasn't fine. We had an amazing time discovering that strategy game together—her tactical brilliance, the way she approached fictional scenarios with real-world expertise, both of us getting genuinely excited about faction mechanics and strategic depth, even if me being a unit is still fucking unsettling. Everything had gone perfectly until I apparently decided to use her as a pillow.

  But maybe Carter's right. Maybe Grace's silence isn't magical compulsion preventing her from expressing discomfort. Maybe it's just Grace being Grace—direct, honest, and perfectly capable of establishing boundaries when she needs to.

  Sometimes you just have to trust that the person you care about is telling you the truth, even when your brain insists on finding problems where none exist.

  Especially when people fucking with emergency contact information gives you something productive to be annoyed about instead of dwelling on imaginary relationship disasters that may or may not exist either because you're overthinking the desaster or because you want a relationship where there is none, and can be none till you deal with a magical debt inforsement claws because you did the human thing and brought a woman inside you're nice warm house because, you know, you didn't want her to fucking die.

  ---Grace---

  I notice him from two blocks away—a man bent halfway into a large metal container behind the store Jason calls a "convenience mart." His lower half protrudes awkwardly, legs dangling as he reaches for something inside. The position leaves him vulnerable, exposed. In my world, such carelessness would mean death.

  I observe from across the street, cataloging details out of habit. Middle-aged male, approximately fifty winters. Clothing layered but worn thin at stress points—elbows, knees, collars. Hair matted, unwashed, displaying inadequate self-maintenance. The scent of illness clings to him, though not the infectious kind that would endanger others. Nutritional deficiency, most likely, combined with insufficient shelter exposure.

  What puzzles me is his purpose. He isn't hunting—no weapon visible, no tactical positioning. He isn't crafting—no tools within immediate reach. Yet he searches with deliberate intent, occasionally withdrawing items from the container and either tucking them into his coat or discarding them with precise assessment. The selection process appears to involve systematic evaluation rather than random acquisition.

  A woman passing by gives the man a wide berth, her face pinching with what I recognize as disgust. Her posture shifts—shoulders elevating 1.7 centimeters, stride lengthening 8.3 centimeters, breathing pattern becoming more shallow. Threat avoidance behaviors, though the man presents no obvious danger. The man doesn't acknowledge her, continuing his methodical search as if she doesn't exist.

  I return to Jason's dwelling, entering through first the gate, then the rear entrance as requested, removing snow from my borrowed boots with methodical precision. 3.4 seconds per boot, ensuring no moisture remains to damage the interior flooring.

  Jason sits hunched over his laptop haveing returned exactly 23 minutes previously. The blue-white light from the screen illuminates his face, casting shadows that emphasize the structural geometry of his facial bones. His positioning is suboptimal for spinal alignment, and I consider rebukeing him on that fact, but decide, for now, it can wait.

  "There was a man searching through a metal container behind the convenience store," I state, hanging my borrowed coat on its designated hook. "His technique suggested experience with the task."

  Jason's scent shifts immediately. Discomfort. Shame. Something deeper I can't quite identify.

  "That's..." He sighs, closing his laptop. "That was probably someone homeless. The container is called a dumpster. It's where businesses throw away things they don't want anymore."

  "He was collecting discarded items," I say, understanding now. "For use. Like those who survived by collecting disgarded items in exchange for meat."

  "Yeah." Jason rubs the back of his neck, a gesture I've learned indicates discomfort. "Sometimes people who don't have houses or apartments—homes—look through garbage for food or things they can use or sell." Before, with a shrug: "also, well. Meat is good. Bacon is meet, and." He smiles, the expression crincling his features in tactically unimportant ways before. "you like bacon."

  "Why would he not have shelter?" I ask. In my world, the clan provides for all who contribute. Those who cannot contribute due to injury or age are either cared for if they are useful, or given mercy if they are not. No one simply... exists without purpose or place.

  The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "It's complicated," Jason says, his voice quieter now. "Some lose their homes because they can't afford them anymore. Some have mental health issues that make it hard for them to maintain a stable life. Some had addictions that took everything from them. Some just had really bad luck." He raises a hand as if to gesture to himself, before lowering it with a huff of expelled air.

  I consider this. "So your tribe does not provide for them?"

  "We should," Jason says, a sharp edge entering his voice that surprises me. "We absolutely should. But we don't. Not enough, anyway. There are some shelters, some programs, but they're underfunded and overwhelmed."

  "This troubles you," I observe, noting the 15% increase in muscle tension around his jaw.

  Jason looks away. "Yeah, it does. But you know what's worse? I'm part of the problem." The scent of self-disgust grows stronger. "I see them and I just... look away. Walk faster. Pretend they're not there."

  "Why?" I ask, genuinely curious. I consider informing him that, by his own metrics, he could not see till I restored his sight, but suspect that said will not help in this instance.

  "Because I'm afraid," he admits, voice barely above a whisper. "Not of them, exactly. Of becoming them. Of ending up there myself." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "One medical emergency, one job loss, a few missed payments... the distance between me and that dumpster isn't as far as I'd like to pretend it is, Grace. Especially not, you know." He compleats the aborted gesture from earlier, a long-fingered hand gesturing to his face.

  I process this. The concept is foreign to me—in my world, status is determined by strength, skill, and contribution to the clan. Yet I understand fear. Fear of becoming vulnerable, of losing one's place.

  "And that's what disgusts me," Jason continues, his hands clenched now. "That I can't even look at them without seeing what might happen to me. That I've gotten so... numb to it all. I barely even notice anymore, and when I do, I just keep walking."

  I reach out hesitantly, placing my hand on his arm. The gesture feels tactically suboptimal—physical comfort isn't something that serves survival function—but I've observed it brings Jason ease, as with Magnen's observations of Jason and touch, as with his falling asleep on my shoulder previously.

  "In my world," I say slowly, "we are taught that fear serves a purpose. It warns of danger. But when fear prevents necessary action, it becomes a weakness. Weakness brings only death."

  "Yeah, well, I'm weak then," Jason mutters.

  "I did not say that," I correct him immediately. "You recognize your fear. You name it. That is not weakness. Weakness is, now, doing nothing to change this fact."

  Jason looks up, something shifting in his expression. "You know, most people would've just agreed with me that it's sad and moved on. You always cut straight to the heart of things, don't you, Survival Squirrel Girl?"

  The unfamiliar term catches my attention. "Survival... squirrel?"

  "It's a nickname," Jason explains, his scent shifting to something lighter. "From that video of you. Which reminds me..."

  He reopens his laptop, navigating to the video of our encounter with the blue-haired woman. The recording plays with precise digital clarity once more—my explanation about meat-ripping teeth, my dismissal of her threats.

  "I wanted to show you something I forgot about last time," Jason says, scrolling down beneath the video. "These are comments. People write their reactions to videos they watch."

  I lean closer, maintaining optimal distance for screen visibility while preserving appropriate personal space. Jason appeared concerned about something this morning, and without knowing what, I will not enter Jason's personal space. Rows of text appear beneath the video, each preceded by what appears to be identification markers.

  **BlueRaven94:** *OMG who is this crazy wilderness woman talking about meat-ripping teeth?? ??*

  **TrueSurvivor2023:** *Finally someone who knows what they're talking about. City people have no idea.*

  **MapleleafGirl:** *Karen got OWNED lmao*

  **god_of_the_dead** and you can do better? You're just thirsty.*

  **WildernessExpert:** *Actually, squirrels don't have meat-ripping teeth, they're herbivores.*

  I analyze these statements, attempting to identify tactical patterns. "These are responses to the video? From strangers?"

  "Yes," Jason confirms, scent flareing with warm approval. "People watch videos and leave their thoughts. Some agree with you, some disagree, some just make jokes." Before: "and some are just edgy."

  "Define this, edgy."

  Jason huffs out a laugh, though his scent indicates he's more amused at the comment than me.

  "Edgy is..." He stops, thinking. "like when you say things just, not to stur the pot, but." He stops again, expression changeing to a considering one before: "never actually had to explain edgy to someone before..."

  "The disagreement about squirrel dentition is factually incorrect," I state, decideing to return to the topic at hand. "In my homeland, squirrels have evolved specialized incisors for stripping flesh during winter scarcity periods."

  "Probably different squirrels," Jason says with a small smile. "But that's not really the point. The thing is, you've gone viral. Over 200,000 views in less than a week."

  I process this information. "My tactical information about predator species has been distributed to two hundred thousand individuals?"

  "More like your takedown of a Karen has entertained two hundred thousand people," Jason clarifies. "But yes, your squirrel facts are now famous too."

  He navigates away from the video to another screen. "That reminds me—I wanted to show you something else. The web novel you've been reading? It has comments too, from other readers. You can see them at the end of each chapter."

  He demonstrates, scrolling to the bottom of a page filled with text. Similar to the video, rows of comments appear.

  "You can see what other people thought about the story, ask questions, discuss theories," Jason explains. "It's like a conversation about the story that happens after you read it."

  I study the interface, identifying the information architecture. "This allows for tactical assessment of others' interpretations."

  "I guess you could put it that way," Jason says, watching my face with an expression I cannot fully categorize. His pupils have dilated 18%, and the corners of his mouth have elevated slightly. "You've been really plowing through that story, haven't you? Like when you demolished that pizza the other night when mom and dad got home?"

  "The narrative structure is efficient," I explain. "Information is presented in logical progression with minimal wasted exposition."

  Jason's smile widens. "It's okay to say you enjoy it, you know. I've seen how you read it—the same way you ate that pizza. Like you can't get enough."

  I consider this assessment. "The consumption patterns are... similar," I acknowledge. "Both provide beneficial input, though of different types."

  "Adorable," Jason murmurs, so quietly I barely register it.

  "Adorable is tactically irrelevant," I state, though something unfamiliar stirs in my chest at his continued observation of this fact.

  "Maybe," Jason says, his expression softening further. "But it's wholesome as hell watching you discover things you like, Grace."

  I do not understand how the consumption of digital information can be classified as "wholesome," but I recognize that correcting this assessment would serve no tactical purpose. Instead, I return my attention to the comment section, mapping the distribution of reader responses and calculating optimal information extraction methodologies.

  The concept of shared reactions to common experiences—whether videos or narratives—represents another unfamiliar social parameter in this world. In my homeland, survival knowledge is shared only when tactically advantageous and even then, only with obvious benefit to the giver. Here, information flows freely, opinions exchanged without obvious survival benefit and seemingly no benifit to the giver.

  Another adaptation I must integrate into my understanding of this strange environment.

  I process the new information about comments and digital social interaction, attempting to integrate it into my growing framework of this world's communication systems. The patterns are complex—different from the direct, survival-oriented exchanges of my homeland. However, I note with some surprise, I am glad to have someone to guide me through it. Even if he does things no healthy person should. I am not someone to let one's guard down around. I am. Carter does not believe that I am a psychopath. However...

  "The homeless man," I say, returning to topics that do not involve strange feelings I have no name for. "If someone recorded him at the dumpster, would people also comment?"

  Jason's expression darkens immediately—brow lowering 0.3 centimeters, jaw muscles tensing 12%, mixture of anger, self-disgust and something that I can only think of as apathy wafting from him in waves. "Probably, but not in a good way. People can be cruel online. A lot crueler than they are in person, actually. Easier to insult someone if you know they, probably, can't find you and, you know, stab you or something." He shrugs.

  "I do not understand this world sometimes," I admit, the confession feeling strangely personal, a tactical vulnerability I should suppress. "In mine, threats are direct. Visible. Here, they are hidden in small devices, in words typed by those you cannot see."

  "Yeah," Jason says softly, his fingers tapping once against the keyboard before stilling. "It's complicated. But not everything about it is bad. The internet also connects people, helps them learn things, find communities. Things that you wouldn't find otherwise."

  I think about this, examining the concept from multiple tactical angles. The digital information exchange creates both vulnerabilities and advantages—allowing knowledge acquisition without physical risk while simultaneously enabling attack vectors without direct confrontation. Complex, inefficient by survival standards, yet somehow functional within this environment's parameters, as many other things I have learned of are.

  I stand in a single fluid motion, decision made. "I wish to see this dumpster place again. To understand better."

  Jason looks startled, his posture shifting as he straightens. "What? Why? Now?"

  "Because fear prevents necessary action," I say simply, recalling our earlier exchange. "And I do not wish to look away."

  Jason studies me for 2.4 seconds, something shifting in his expression—surprise giving way to what might be respect, though my ability to accurately categorize such subtle emotional shifts remains imperfect, even with sent's assistance. Even when I have studied him over this last week more than strictly necessary for survival imparitives.

  "Okay," he says finally, closing his laptop with careful movements. "We'll go together."

  This response creates an unexpected warmth in my chest—another of the non-tactical emotional responses that have become more frequent since my arrival in this world. Since Jason... I do not understand their purpose, yet find myself increasingly unwilling to suppress them as I should.

  Another adaptation, perhaps. One that, like the web novel consumption and the care of Kitten, serves no obvious survival function yet somehow feels necessary in this strange new environment where a man falls asleep on my shoulder, even as he knows I have killed 43 people. Even as he knows what I am. Even as he puts a finger to my lips, and reacts to my explanation of biteing off his finger by asking me to explain how I would actually do such.

  ---Jason---

  There's something about her words that cuts through all my defenses—all the carefully constructed rationalizations I've built up over years of walking past homeless people with averted eyes. Well, ears, but same shit different pile and all that. Grace, who understands so little about our world, somehow understands this fundamental failing perfectly.

  "Because fear prevents necessary action," she says, standing with that unnervingly perfect posture of hers. "And I do not wish to look away."

  And now she's waiting, clearly expecting me to join her. I close my laptop, setting it aside. Part of me wants to make an excuse—it's getting late, it might not be safe, we don't have anything to offer anyway. But Grace would see through those excuses instantly. She always does. It's why. No. No, she knows I'm attracted to her. If she doesn't want to do something about it, I won't push. Not even going into the death oath clusterfuck that would stop me from doing anything anyway, which I wouldn't because I'd probably just fuck something up, though at least Grace would tell me when I fucked up, so there's that.

  "Alright," I say, standing up and feeling a strange mixture of dread and relief. "Let's go. But first, let's put together some sandwiches or something to bring. If we're going, we should at least bring something useful to these people."

  Grace nods once, approving. "Yes. That is practical."

  In the kitchen, I pull out bread, peanut butter, jam, and the leftover turkey from dinner two nights ago. Grace watches with that intense focus she brings to everything, cataloging my movements as if making mental notes for future reference.

  "Is this sufficient caloric density?" she asks as I spread peanut butter on a slice of bread. "Protein content appears adequate, but sugar levels seem high for optimal nutritional balance."

  I smile despite my nervousness. "It's better than nothing. Most homeless shelters serve peanut butter sandwiches because they're cheap, filling, and don't need refrigeration."

  She absorbs this information with a slight nod. "Tactical nutritional compromise. Understood."

  As I assemble the sandwiches, wrapping each one carefully in plastic before placing it in a paper bag, I find myself wondering, not for the first time, who exactly is teaching whom in this strange relationship we've developed. Grace might be the one learning about our world, true, but I'm increasingly certain I'm the one getting the more important education. Granted, well, I'm me, so I'm kind of biast here, but still.

  "We should include water," Grace states, opening the refrigerator with precise movements. "Hydration is essential, particularly in individuals with compromised resource access."

  "Good thinking," I agree, adding several bottles to our package.

  Twenty minutes later, we're walking through the darkness of a Toronto winter evening. The temperature has dropped another five degrees since sunset, and my breath forms thick clouds in the frigid air. Grace moves beside me, as always completely unaffected by the cold despite wearing only the borrowed jacket that's slightly too large for her frame, though she's only doing that after I noted that everyone wears jackets, so.

  "You're not cold?" I ask though I know the answer, rubbing my gloved hands together while huddling deeper into my jacket as I shiver.

  "The temperature is well within tolerable parameters," Grace replies simply. "In my homeland, this would be considered mild spring weather."

  "I wish I could learn vigger," I mutter under my breath, huddling deeper into my jacket, neither for the first time.

  Grace's head turns sharply toward me. "That can be arranged."

  I stare at her, startled. "You heard that? I barely heard myself."

  "Enhanced auditory perception," she reminds me. "A secondary benefit of proper vigger training."

  The convenience store comes into view, its fluorescent lights casting a harsh glow over the parking lot. My steps slow as we approach, anxiety building in my chest. What are we even doing? Who am I to think I can just walk up to homeless people and—what? Save them? Make myself feel better about the fact I have a house? I want to punch myself in the face for even thinking it, and there not me. They've also probably had enough bastards doing that, because people are fucking assholes and some, more than I would have ever thought, decide to fuck with people who can't fight back to make themselves feel better. Done enough of that, and been done enough of that too to know that.

  Grace notices my hesitation immediately. "Your respiratory rate has increased by 23%. Are you experiencing fear?"

  "Not fear exactly," I admit. "More like... I don't know what to say to them. What if we make things worse? What if they think we're just doing this to feel good about ourselves? What if I'm actually just hear to feel better about myself?"

  She considers this for 3.2 seconds, I counted, before responding. "Intent is irrelevant compared to outcome. If they receive nutrition they otherwise would not have, the transaction has positive value regardless of our emotional motivation, Jason."

  The simple, logical clarity of her response steadies me like it always does. She's right, of course. Whatever complicated emotions I'm feeling are secondary to the practical reality of people needing food. Also, her saying my name helps too.

  I spot him before Grace does this time—the same man she'd described earlier, now sitting with three others behind the convenience store. They've made a sort of makeshift camp using flattened cardboard boxes and what looks like a tarp strung between the dumpster and the chain-link fence. A small fire burns in what appears to be a metal trash can, providing meager warmth against the bitter cold.

  Grace moves with that eerie silent grace of hers, the paper bag of sandwiches held in one hand. I follow behind, suddenly acutely aware of how ridiculous this probably seems. Who are we to just walk up to these people and insert ourselves into their lives? But Grace doesn't hesitate—of course she doesn't. Hesitation isn't in her vocabulary.

  "I observed you earlier," she announces as we approach, causing all four of them to look up sharply. "You were searching through this waste container. I wished to understand why."

  I wince at her bluntness. So much for easing into this conversation. The four people stare at us with expressions ranging from surprise to suspicion. The man Grace had seen earlier—a weathered face partially hidden beneath a matted beard—studies us with eyes that hold more intelligence and wariness than most would expect.

  "Grace," I murmur, stepping forward. "Maybe a gentler approach?"

  She tilts her head slightly, processing this suggestion with visible consideration. "Understood. Social protocols differ in this context."

  Turning back to the group, I clear my throat. "Sorry to interrupt. We, uh, we brought some sandwiches and water if you'd like them."

  The oldest man—the one Grace had seen earlier—squints up at us suspiciously. There's a woman beside him, maybe forty, with a weather-beaten face and eyes that have seen too much. Two younger guys, probably in their twenties, flank them.

  "What's it to you?" one of the younger men asks, his tone hostile but his body language wary. Also, the fuck can I tell that about the bodylanguage? A, fuck it, just go with 'a magical woman did it' and run with that. hell, wouldn't even be technically wrong either, and I don't have anything better to explain this.

  Grace holds up the paper bag. "We have brought food. Sandwiches with meat and peenut butter. We wish to speak with you."

  They exchange glances, clearly suspicious but also clearly hungry.

  "Grace," I murmur again, "maybe a slightly softer approach?"

  She gives me that look—the one that says she's processing but doesn't quite get it—then nods once. "The food is yours regardless of whether you speak with us," she amends. "But I would like to understand."

  The older man chuckles, a raspy sound. "Straight to the point, aren't you? Fine." He gestures toward the bag. "Let's see what you've got there."

  I nod to Grace, who opens the bag and begins distributing the sandwiches. I'd packed some bottled water too, which she hands out next.

  "So what do you want to know?" the man asks me directly, ignoring Grace despite her being the one who spoke. I've seen this before—people tend to direct their responses to me even when Grace asks the questions. Maybe it's her intensity, or maybe they just assume I'm somehow in charge. Either way, it's wrong, and I've noticed it frustrates her. Considering I get a lot of the opposit before, can't really blame Grace even if I was of a mind to.

  "Actually, my friend is the one who had questions," I say, nodding toward Grace. "I'm just along for the ride."

  Grace doesn't miss a beat. "Why are you in this state? Without shelter, without clan?"

  The woman snorts. "Clan? What century you from, honey?"

  "I merely wish to understand," Grace says, unfazed. "In my homeland, all contribute to the clan according to their abilities, and receive according to their needs. None are left to scavenge waste."

  "Sounds like communism," one of the younger men says, but there's no bite to it. He's already halfway through his sandwich.

  "Look," the older man says, now addressing Grace directly, "it's not that complicated. Life happens. Bad choices, bad luck, bad economy. I lost my job when the factory closed. Couldn't make rent. Couldn't find work at my age. Ended up here."

  "I've got PTSD from my time in Afghanistan," the woman offers after a moment. "Can't keep a job when the nightmares keep you from sleeping more than an hour at a time."

  The two younger men exchange glances. "Drugs," one of them admits. "Started with pills after a back injury. Ended up with heroin. Clean now, but no one wants to hire an ex-addict with a record."

  I watch Grace absorb this information, her face impassive but her eyes alert. This is how she processes—taking in data, filing it away, forming connections. She doesn't judge or react emotionally, just... learns. Wonder if she can teach me how to do that?

  "May I ask another question?" she says after a moment.

  The group exchanges glances, then the older man shrugs. "Sure, why not? Not like we've got pressing appointments."

  "What would be required for you to become no-longer clanless? To have shelter and purpose again?"

  Something in her phrasing, so strange yet so direct, seems to crack through their initial hostility. There's no pity in her voice, no condescension—just genuine curiosity and a kind of practical concern that's uniquely Grace. Granted it could also be the food, but I'm going to go with Grace being Grace for this one.

  "A fucking miracle," the woman says with a bitter laugh.

  "More specifically," Grace presses.

  "ID," the older man says after a pause. "Most of us lost our identification a long time ago. Can't get a job without ID, can't get housing without a job, can't get ID without an address. It's a circle you can't break out of once you're in it."

  "Money for first and last month's rent," one of the younger men, the other one now, adds. "Even if you somehow get a job, you need thousands up front for any apartment."

  "A chance," the first young man says quietly. "Someone willing to take a risk on us."

  Grace nods, absorbing this. "Your society has created a system where those who fall cannot rise again without assistance, yet provides insufficient assistance to allow them to do so."

  "Pretty much," the older man agrees.

  "This is inefficient," Grace states flatly. "And wasteful of human resources."

  The woman laughs again, but this time there's a hint of genuine amusement. "Lady, you've got a way of putting things. But yeah, you're not wrong."

  I stand back, watching this exchange with a mixture of fascination and discomfort. Grace, who understands so little about modern society, has cut straight to the core of the issue in a way that makes perfect sense. Of course she would see homelessness as a resource allocation problem—in her world, everyone contributes according to their ability. Waste is not tolerated. Waste gets you mircied.

  After a few more questions about their daily lives and challenges, Grace nods once and says, "Thank you for your information. It has been valuable."

  "That's it?" the older man asks, looking slightly surprised by the abrupt conclusion.

  "For now," Grace confirms. She glances at me, clearly checking if I have anything to add.

  "Thanks for talking with us," I say lamely, feeling utterly inadequate. What are we even doing here? What difference does this make? But I can see in the way they're looking at Grace that something about her approach—her directness, her lack of pity or judgment—has resonated with them.

  "Come back anytime," the woman says, and I'm surprised to hear what sounds like genuine invitation in her voice. "Most people walk by like we're invisible. Or worse, like we're dangerous. You two are... different."

  We say our goodbyes and walk away, Grace moving with her usual silent efficiency, me trying to process what just happened. Once we're a block away, she turns to me.

  "What is 'PTSD'?" she asks. "And what are 'heroin' and 'pills'?"

  I spend the next few minutes explaining these terms as best I can, feeling like some kind of walking Wikipedia page. Grace listens intently, occasionally asking for clarification.

  "What is this 'miracle' the woman mentioned?" Grace asks after I finish explaining addiction, though probably porrly.

  "It's..." I search for words. "It's something impossible. Something that defies the normal rules of how things work. Like a divine intervention or a magical event that changes everything."

  Grace goes quiet, her face thoughtful in that particular way I've come to recognize when she's processing something important.

  "Like fixing your eyes," she says finally. "Something that you did not believe was possible. Something you did not believe would ever happen."

  I stop walking, the comparison regestering with me as I stand there. "Yeah," I say softly. "Exactly like that. Something, well. Something you never thought would ever change, but in a good way."

  Grace falls silent again, her brow furrowed in concentration. After nearly a full minute of continued walking without speaking—which feels like an eternity right now—I can't stand it anymore.

  "Are you thinking about using vigger to help them?" I ask. "Like for the guy who had the addiction?"

  "Yes," she admits, her voice unusually hesitant. "Vigger can restructure damaged tissue. It may be possible to repair the physiological dependency in the former addict. However..." She pauses, clearly struggling with something. "I have never attempted such an application before. The risk factors are significant."

  "But you'd try?" I press, feeling a strange mix of hope and uncertainty.

  "I would need to assess him more thoroughly first," she says, tone cautious. "And understand more about this chemical dependency. The principles should be similar to healing other physical trauma, but..." She shakes her head slightly. "I require additional information before making that determination. I was never a healer."

  The fact that she's even considering it probably shouldn't surprise me but does anyway. This woman who claims to feel almost nothing, who sees the world through the cold lens of survival, is contemplating using her abilities to help a stranger because it would be... efficient? Because it would reduce waste? Or maybe—just maybe—because she recognizes suffering and wants to alleviate it. Then again, she did save a kitten in a box for similor reasons, and look how that turned out? Stupid adorible little floof ball that she turned out to be.

  "WATCH OUT!" Comes a voice followed by a hard shove that sends me sprawling backward onto the sidewalk. The truck roars through the intersection where I would have been standing, horn blaring belatedly. I look up, dazed, to see the older homeless man—the one Grace had first observed at the dumpster—standing at the edge of the crosswalk, breathing hard.

  "Jesus, kid," he wheezes. "Pay attention!"

  Grace is already at my side, her eyes scanning me for injuries with clinical precision. Behind her, I can see the homeless man who just saved my life.

  "You followed us," Grace states, not a question but an observation.

  The man shrugs. "Figured I'd make sure you two got home okay. Streets can be dangerous." His mouth twists into a wry smile. "Even for folks with homes."

  "I am in your debt," Grace says formally, rising to her full height. "In my world, such a debt would be acknowledged with a reciprocal promise of protection or service."

  The man looks taken aback, then chuckles. "Don't worry about it. Just pay attention next time, yeah? Have enough people killed in this sity without two more."

  I climb shakily to my feet, heart still hammering in my chest. "Thank you," I manage, feeling utterly inadequate. This man, who society treats as invisible, who I treated similarly till, far too recently for my likeing or comfort, just saved my life without hesitation. "Seriously, thank you."

  "What's your name?" Grace asks him.

  "Mike," he says after a slight pause. "Mike Tanner."

  "I shall remember it," Grace promises, with a solemnity that might seem overdramatic from anyone else, but from her sounds like an oath carved in particularly unyielding stone. Or would bone be better? Yeah, bone would be better considering her knives and all that.

  Mike looks between us, seeming unsure what to make of Grace's intensity. "You two be careful," he says finally. "Maybe look both ways next time, huh?"

  He turns to leave, but Grace stops him with a question. "Where will you be tomorrow?"

  Mike hesitates. "Same place, probably. Why?"

  "We will return," Grace states simply. "There are matters to discuss."

  I take a deep breath, trying to steady my still-racing heart. The adrenaline is wearing off, and it's leaving me shaky and suddenly desperate for the safety of home.

  "Can we just go home now?" I ask, my voice betraying more vulnerability than I like. "I've had enough near-death experiences for one day."

  Grace turns to me, her expression hardening. "We have incurred a debt," she says firmly. "Such obligations cannot be dismissed for mere convenience or comfort, Jason."

  "It's not about convenience," I protest. "I just—"

  "Let it go," Mike interrupts, his weathered face softening as he looks at me. "I didn't do it for some stupid oath or whatever you're talking about, lady." He addresses Grace directly now. "I did it because I still have some humanity left in me." His voice cracks slightly. "And because... I had a son who looked a lot like him. Acted a lot the same, too."

  The simple statement hangs in the air between us. Grace goes very still, processing this new information in that peculiar way of hers.

  "I see," she says finally, her tone different now. "Family connection is a powerful motivator in any world."

  Mike nods, then looks back at me. "Go home, kid. Rest. Tomorrow's another day."

  "Thank you," I say again, feeling the inadequacy of the words. "Really."

  As Mike walks away, I see Grace watching him with an expression I haven't seen before—something almost like respect mingled with confusion.

  "He rejected the debt," she murmurs, seemingly to herself. "And yet he acted from obligation nonetheless. A different kind."

  "People are complicated," I say with a shrug.

  We walk the rest of the way home in silence, Grace clearly deep in thought and me still shaken by the close call. By the time we reach my front door, I've made a decision.

  "We should still go back tomorrow," I say as I unlock the door. "Not because of any debt or obligation, but because it's the right thing to do."

  Grace studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "I would like that," she says simply.

  As we step inside, I wonder what Mike meant about having a son who looked like me. Past tense. Had. The implications make my chest tight with a strange, sympathetic grief for a man I barely know and a son I'll never meet.

  Some debts can never be repaid, I realize. But maybe that's not what helping is really about, in the end.