Lexus changed first in the quiet.
Not during battle.
Not when blood was on his hands or shadows screamed.
He changed in the moments when nothing was happening—when Anna slept, when the world exhaled, when no one was watching.
Anna noticed it because she was the only one who could.
At first it was subtle. He stood a fraction too still, like a statue waiting for permission to breathe. His shadow no longer clung only to light—it moved independently, stretching toward doorways, reacting to sounds that hadn’t yet occurred.
Then came the dreams.
She woke one night to find him sitting upright beside her, eyes open, staring into nothing.
“Lexus,” she whispered.
He didn’t answer.
She reached for him—and felt resistance.
Not physical.
Conceptual.
As if something about him had gained mas
