The Cheshire Grin

The figure was approaching.

It moved with the precise, detached grace of a puppeteer taking the stage. Directionless winds swirled around it. With each step, the air grew colder, so much so that the ever-moving stars themselves seemed to freeze in place.

Kim's pupils narrowed to dagger-thin slits.

"Heise," he growled, voice like a blade being drawn.

With theatrical timing, the man flicked open an umbrella—black as dried blood under the moonlight. The silk stretched wide above him, useless against the cold, cosmic rain. A shield? No. A stage light. A statement.

Kim's tail lashed once, twice, then froze. His claws unsheathed with a quiet snick, catching the light. A low hiss rose from his throat, the kind that came from ancient instincts, not modern mouths.

Heise didn't blink. Not once.

Kim's body tensed, like a spring-loaded trap.

He was about to lunge at Heise when Ru held him back.

"Kim," he said—barely a breath. "Don't."