Cindy starts circling me before I can put a name to the feeling. It is not open confrontation at first, not words sharp enough to justify response, just presence that lingers a little too long in corridors and doorways, eyes that follow without apology, silences that stretch until they feel deliberate. I notice it the way I notice shifts in training rhythm or patrol cadence, not as a spike of alarm but as a pattern that does not belong.
The packhouse has been like this for days now, tight and watchful after the attack, everyone keyed a little too high, everyone carrying stress in the small ways they think no one else can see. I understand that. I live inside it too. But Cindy’s attention is different, not fear-driven and not cautious, something sharper and more personal, like a question s
