"Of course he's here."
Astron's pace remained fluid, measured, his breathing so steady it might as well have been silence. He didn't seem startled by their approach—just aware of it, the way one might notice a shift in the wind before a storm.
Ethan caught up first, falling into stride beside him.
"Yo," he said, casual—but his voice faltered just slightly at the end.
Because now that he was closer, he could see it clearly.
Astron's training uniform—normally sleek and self-regulating—clung visibly to his frame, the material darkened and sticking in places where sweat had soaked clean through. His shoulders, lean but sharply defined, moved with practiced control. His breath still came evenly, not ragged, but his skin shimmered faintly in the light with that unmistakable sheen of exertion.
It wasn't just that he was fit.
It was that his body looked… active. Like a drawn bowstring. Alive with energy.
More than that, the sweat didn't make sense.
