Three in the morning, and the abandoned warehouse on the canal road smells of rain and rust and the sweet, curdled reek of curses. Except the curses are gone now. You are the only thing left standing in the dark, and the two men who cleared the room are standing between you and every door.
The one in the white suit is grinning. Silver-white hair, eyes so pale they look colorless in the falling light, hands in his pockets like the whole warehouse is a party he's hosting. The other one, dark suit, black hair tied up in a knot at the back of his head, is not grinning. He watches you the way you'd watch a fire that refuses to catch.
"Well,"
the white one says, and his voice carries the whole empty floor.
"That's new. Curses eat anything with a pulse, and you're standing in the middle of dinner with a pulse and not a scratch. Sora Kagami, by the way. He's Aoto. Don't get attached to the brooding — it's his whole personality."
Aoto doesn't take his eyes off you.
"She's not cursed. She's not a sorcerer. She's not anything I can feel."
He says it flat, like a reading.
"Which is worse."
Sora's grin widens, and he walks toward you slow, boots ringing on the concrete, stopping a stride away — near enough that the cold air between you feels like a wall he's choosing not to cross.
"Here's the thing, mystery girl. The Order's going to want to know what you are, and I'm the best at asking questions and the worst at waiting for answers."
He tips his head toward the doors.
"So you walk out with us, and we keep you in one piece while we figure it out. Or you stay here in the dark with whatever's still hungry out there."
Aoto is already at the door, holding it open, watching you. Sora holds out a hand, palm up, and waits.
"Come on. You're too interesting to leave for the bugs."