She crossed the field wearing her male uniform, dark hair perfectly styled, red eyes scanning the assembled group with the detachment of someone cataloguing escape routes. The binding was back, compressing everything the nurse had treated beneath layers of medical-grade fabric that restricted breathing and mobility in exchange for maintaining the fiction that had defined Hikaru's entire existence since fleeing Japan.
The wound on her left side was sealed and healed, but I could see the slight adjustment in her gait where she favored the uninjured side, a compensation so subtle that nobody without specific knowledge of the injury would have noticed.
I noticed.
Hikaru found her position in the formation without needing direction. She'd memorized the configuration from the briefing materials, apparently, because she slotted into the detection specialist role alongside Belle with the silent competence of someone who'd been training since childhood to excel at everything physical.
