gathering

---Jason---

The alarm's insistent beeping drags me from sleep, my hand fumbling across the nightstand until it finds the offending device. I smack it more forcefully than necessary, eyes blinking open to meet the early morning darkness. For a heartbeat, panic surges through me—the blank void of blindness returned—until the shapes of my bedroom furniture gradually materialize in the pre-dawn gloom.

Right. I can see now. Even in darkness. That's still going to take some getting used to.

I scrub a hand across my face, stubble rasping against my palm as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. My clothes from yesterday lie in a crumpled heap where I dropped them, the bathrobe hanging crookedly from the back of my door. The clock reads 6:05 AM.

"Plenty of time," I mutter, shuffling toward the bathroom with my eyes half-shut. The cold floor sends a shiver up my legs, reminding me why I usually wear slippers in winter. Too late now.

The shower water takes forever to warm up, pipes groaning their displeasure at being called to action so early in the morning. I stand shivering on the bath mat, cursing softly as I test the spray with my fingertips. When it finally reaches a temperature that won't give me hypothermia, I step in, letting the hot water cascade over my shoulders.

As I wash, my mind circles back to yesterday's events—my mother spotting Grace on video, her less-than-subtle interrogation, the abrupt change in travel plans. They'll be arriving today, not tomorrow. And what will they find? A woman from another reality with bone knives and combat skills living in my house. Perfect.

At least we've got our story straight. Romanian village. Cultural exchange. Lost belongings. Simple enough, as long as Grace remembers the details. She seems to have a mind like a steel trap, so I'm not too worried about her part. My acting skills, on the other hand...

I rinse shampoo from my hair, watching rivulets of water spiral down the drain. Still weird, being able to see these everyday things that most people take for granted. The texture of soap bubbles. Steam rising in swirling patterns. My own hands, which look nothing like I imagined based on touch alone.

After drying off and wrapping a towel around my waist, I wipe condensation from the mirror and stare at my reflection. Sandy blond hair darkened by water, pale blue eyes that still don't quite track properly sometimes, a jaw that could use a shave. This face that's mine but still feels like a stranger's, even after a full day of sight.

I pull on fresh clothes—dark jeans, a blue button-down that feels appropriately professional, thick wool socks to combat the perpetual chill in my feet. Running a comb through my damp hair, I attempt to bring some order to it before giving up. Good enough.

The smell hits me halfway down the hallway—rich, savory, unmistakably eggs cooking. My stomach responds with an enthusiastic growl as I round the corner into the kitchen, expecting to find Grace experimenting with the stove again.

She stands with her back to me, deftly maneuvering a spatula through scrambled eggs in a pan I don't even remember owning. She's wearing the same clothes as yesterday—my sweatpants rolled up at the ankles, my navy shirt hanging loose on her smaller frame. Her blue-black hair is tousled from sleep, surprisingly soft-looking in the morning light filtering through the kitchen window.

"Morning," I say, trying not to startle her. "You didn't have to cook."

Grace turns, her movements fluid and economical. No wasted motion, just perfect efficiency. "I have prepared breakfast," she states unnecessarily, gesturing toward the pan with her spatula. "Protein is essential for replenishing vigger reserves."

I move closer, peering over her shoulder at the perfectly scrambled eggs. "This is... wow. Thank you. I was just going to have cereal."

"Cereal provides inadequate nutrition," she replies, her tone matter-of-fact rather than judgmental. "This is compensation for your allowing me to use the hot tub and showing me its operation."

I laugh, shaking my head as I reach for plates from the cabinet. "Grace, you don't need to compensate me for that. I offered because I wanted you to enjoy it, not because I expected something in return."

She studies me, those intense green eyes analyzing my expression as if searching for deception. "You did not calculate potential return benefit when offering access to your heated water device?"

"Nope," I confirm, setting two plates on the counter beside her. "I just thought you might like it. And I was happy when you did." I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly. "I like when people enjoy things I share with them. It's not complicated."

Grace nods once, accepting this information with the same precision she applies to everything else. "Still, preparation of food is practical contribution to shared resources." She divides the eggs between our plates with mechanical precision, ensuring exactly equal portions. "It maintains balance."

"Well, it's appreciated," I say, opening a drawer to retrieve forks. "Though I was going to eat cereal since we don't seem to have any meat. I can't cook much beyond those air-fried sandwiches, hot dogs, and nachos—the unholy trinity of bachelor food."

Grace turns to face me fully, brow furrowing slightly. "There is an abundance of meat in your cold storage device. I assumed you acquired it, as I certainly did not."

"Wait, what?" I nearly drop the forks, moving quickly to the refrigerator. Pulling it open, I stare in disbelief at the neatly arranged packages of meat that definitely weren't there yesterday—steaks, chicken, what looks like venison, all wrapped with professional precision and labeled with meticulous handwriting.

"What the hell?" I mutter, removing a package of bacon and examining it. The quality is immediately apparent—this isn't grocery store meat. This is high-end, artisanal stuff. "I didn't buy this."

"The meat appeared while I was in the hot tub," Grace offers, watching me with that analytical gaze. "I noticed it when preparing food after you had fallen asleep."

I set most of the meat aside, keeping only the bacon as I close the refrigerator door. "Well, this is... weird. But not the weirdest thing that's happened lately." I turn the package over in my hands, examining the immaculate butcher paper. "Want some bacon with these eggs? I apologize in advance that I have no idea how to cook it in a pan, though I can do it in the air fryer if you'd prefer."

Grace takes half the bacon from me without hesitation. "I will prepare this portion in the pan. You may use your air fryer for yours."

I nod, strangely touched by her willingness to accommodate my limited cooking skills. "Teamwork makes the dream work, I guess."

While I load bacon into the air fryer, Grace attends to her portion in the pan with practiced ease, the sizzle and aroma quickly filling the kitchen. The domesticity of the scene strikes me suddenly—us cooking breakfast together in comfortable silence, moving around each other in the small space with surprising coordination.

"So about this mysterious meat," I say, setting the timer on the air fryer. "Any theories? Random meat fairy? Meat burglar working in reverse? Santa Claus with a very specific gift list?"

Grace considers this, flipping the bacon with precise, economical movements. "In my world, unexplained resource appearances would suggest rival clan tactics—gifts meant to create obligation without agreement. However, analysis of meat packaging indicates professional preparation beyond standard commercial sources. The handwriting suggests precision unusual for mass market products."

"Well, as long as it's not poisoned, I guess we shouldn't look a gift meat fairy in the mouth," I reason, leaning against the counter as I watch her cook. There's something hypnotic about her movements—such perfect control, such absolute certainty in every action.

"Poison would be inefficient," Grace states confidently. "If someone wished to compromise your dwelling, more effective methods exist."

"That's... comforting?" I laugh, the sound slightly strained. "Let's just enjoy our mysteriously-sourced breakfast and worry about potential assassins later."

Dawson chooses this moment to pad into the kitchen, nose working overtime as he scents the cooking bacon. His nails click rhythmically against the tile, tail wagging with increasing enthusiasm as he approaches.

"Sit," I command, and Dawson immediately drops his hindquarters to the floor, eyes never leaving the bacon. "Paw."

He lifts his right paw, holding it suspended in the air with the wounded dignity only dogs can manage while begging.

"Good boy," I praise, glancing at Grace. "We probably shouldn't give him scraps, technically speaking, but bacon is bacon." I break off a small piece from my portion, cooling it in my hand before offering it to Dawson. "Gentle."

He takes it with delicate precision, then immediately bolts from the kitchen, racing to his bed in the corner of the living room to enjoy his prize in private.

"Does he always retreat to consume resources?" Grace asks, setting her perfectly cooked bacon on a paper towel to drain.

"Every time," I confirm, pulling my own bacon from the air fryer. "I think he's afraid we'll change our minds and take it back. Or maybe he just likes privacy while he eats. Hard to tell with Dawson—he contains multitudes."

With breakfast prepared, we settle at the table, plates steaming before us. Grace immediately reaches for the salt, adding a generous amount to her eggs and bacon. I follow suit, our shared appreciation for sodium apparently transcending dimensional boundaries.

"May I ask about electricity?" Grace inquires after swallowing her first bite.

"Sure," I reply, curious about the sudden interest. "What do you want to know?"

"Last night, I observed you sleeping," she begins, and I nearly choke on my eggs. She continues undeterred. "The blanket had slipped from your shoulder, exposing skin to the cold air. When I adjusted it, my fingers brushed your shoulder. A sensation like contained lightning traveled through my arm. Is this electricity? You mentioned it could cause harm if it entered the body."

I stare at her, fork suspended halfway to my mouth, trying to process this new information. "You were watching me sleep? That's, uh... kind of odd, Grace."

"I had intended to speak with you about compensating for use of the hot tub," she explains without a hint of embarrassment. "However, you were already asleep. I was not observing for recreational purposes."

"Right. Of course not." I set my fork down, considering how to respond to her actual question. "As far as I know, that's not electricity. At least, not the kind that powers devices."

I could tell her that what she felt is often associated with attraction—the spark people talk about when they touch someone they're drawn to. But we've known each other for less than two days, and my interpersonal skills when it comes to relationships are questionable at best. The last thing I need is to try explaining human attraction to someone who's already confused by basic social norms.

Grace must notice my discomfort, because her eyes narrow slightly. "You are concerned."

"I'm just..." I trail off, pushing eggs around my plate. "I'm not sure how to explain it to myself, so explaining it to you would probably just mess something up."

She nods once, accepting this non-answer with surprising ease. "The topic can be revisited when you have sufficient data for accurate assessment."

"Thanks." I take another bite of bacon, grateful for the change of subject. "So, any chance you could walk Dawson again today? The dog walker's hip is still broken, and as far as I know, I can't just ask a magical woman from another reality to come along and fix it."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I realize they might come across as insensitive given that a magical woman from another reality did exactly that for me. "Sorry, that was supposed to be a joke, but it came out wrong. I meant—"

"I understood your intention," Grace interrupts, her expression unchanged. "Your statement carries both factual accuracy and humorous potential. A magical woman from another reality did heal your visual impairment, resulting in sight that differs from standard human perception."

"Yeah, and it's actually better in some ways," I admit, leaning forward slightly. "I can see in the dark, which is pretty convenient. When we have power outages and everyone's stumbling around with flashlights, I'm just going about my business like normal." I grin, unable to hide my enthusiasm. "Is it mean that I find that a little satisfying? Probably. But there's a certain... what's that German word? For when you take pleasure in someone else's misfortune?"

"Schadenfreude," Grace supplies immediately.

"Exactly! There's a bit of schadenfreude in watching people struggle with something that used to be my everyday reality." I take another bite of eggs, suddenly self-conscious about my admission. "Sorry, that probably sounds terrible. I don't actually want people to suffer or anything."

"Enjoyment of situational advantage is natural," Grace replies, methodically cutting her bacon into precisely equal pieces. "In my world, such moments of advantage often represent the difference between life and death. Your enjoyment is mild by comparison."

We finish our meal in companionable silence. After swallowing her last bite, Grace watches me scrape my fork across the empty plate, gathering final bits of egg.

"I should have run the dishwasher last night," I grumble, eyeing the collection of dirty dishes from yesterday. "Have you had a shower yet? I need to run it, but if I do now, there won't be any hot water left."

"I have not," Grace says. "The binding I created yesterday is now dry, but I require cleansing before applying it."

Stolen story; please report.

"I won't run it then," I say, stacking our plates beside the sink. "You can use the shower first." I hesitate, glancing at the clock. "Actually, I should probably head to work soon. Mom will be here before noon, but I'll try to come home early if I can."

A thought occurs to me, and I turn back to Grace. "What do you do for fun? Back in your world, I mean."

She blinks, seemingly surprised by the question. For several moments, she says nothing, as if the concept of "fun" requires extensive translation in her mind.

"I..." she begins, then pauses again. "I sometimes track creatures with no intention of hunting them. Simply to observe their patterns, their behaviors." Her voice softens almost imperceptibly. "I swim beneath ice sometimes, just because I can. The sensation of cold water against skin, the silence beneath the surface—it serves no tactical purpose, yet I find it... not unpleasant."

Something in my chest tightens at her admission. The idea of Grace doing something purely for enjoyment rather than survival feels strangely intimate, like she's shared a secret.

"What else?" I ask, genuinely curious now.

"Stars," she says after another pause. "On clear nights, I watch them. The druid taught me their patterns, how they shift with seasons. I know which stars rise when certain prey animals are most active, which constellations mark the time for planting or harvesting. But sometimes I simply... look." The confession seems to surprise even her. "This serves no immediate tactical function."

"That sounds beautiful," I say softly. "Do you have any favorite sounds? Music or instruments?"

Grace's expression shifts almost imperceptibly. "The druid played hurdy gurdy. The sound was... rich. Complex. I found it tactically unnecessary but aurally satisfying."

"Hurdy gurdy?" I brighten, recognizing a way to share something she might enjoy. "Alexa, play hurdy gurdy music."

The device on the counter lights up, a blue ring illuminating as it processes my request. Moments later, the haunting, layered sounds of a hurdy gurdy fill the kitchen—drone and melody intertwining in medieval patterns.

Grace's head tilts slightly, eyes widening a fraction as the music surrounds us. "How?" she asks simply, gaze fixed on the small cylindrical device.

"That's Alexa," I explain, gesturing toward it. "It's a virtual assistant—basically a computer that can hear and respond to voice commands. You can ask it to play music, answer questions, set timers, that kind of thing."

"A device that listens to your words," Grace repeats, her posture subtly shifting to something more guarded. "This presents significant security vulnerabilities."

"Yeah, it does," I acknowledge with a shrug. "But it's convenient. And honestly, if the government wants to know something, they'll find it out anyway." I scratch the back of my neck awkwardly. "Just, uh, don't try to buy anything with it, okay? Voice purchases are enabled, and I'd rather not come home to find you've ordered a tactical nuke or something."

Grace nods seriously, as if nuclear weapons acquisition is a reasonable concern.

"I should head out," I say, checking the time again. "I'll try to get home around noon, but I can't promise. Dave's usually cool about things, but this job..." I trail off, feeling a twinge of guilt. Part of me wants to call in sick to be here when my parents arrive, but Northern Edge has been good to me. I can't risk antagonizing Dave over something like this.

"Your employment security takes precedence over my comfort," Grace states, her tone neutral. "This is tactically sound reasoning."

"That's not—" I start, then sigh. "Well, partly, yes. But I also genuinely like my job, even if it's mostly paperwork." I gather my coat and bag, moving toward the door. "The Wheel-Trans should be here any minute."

"Wheel-Trans?" Grace follows me to the entryway, her head tilted in that curious way of hers.

"It's specialized transit service for people with disabilities," I explain, pulling on my boots. "I've used it for years to get to work. I could probably learn regular transit routes now that I can see, but..." I shrug, not quite ready to articulate how terrifying the prospect of navigating the city with my new sight actually is.

Grace seems to understand what I don't say. "Familiar routes provide tactical advantages, especially during periods of adjustment."

"Exactly," I say, oddly relieved by her practical framing of my anxiety. The sound of an engine outside draws my attention. "That's my ride. I'll text if I'm going to be late. Food's in the fridge, and you know how to use the air fryer now. Try not to burn down the house or stab any mail carriers, okay?"

The corner of Grace's mouth twitches in what might almost be a smile. "I will restrain myself from unnecessary violence during your absence."

"Comforting," I laugh, opening the door to the crisp morning air. "See you later, Grace."

As I climb into the waiting Wheel-Trans vehicle, I catch a last glimpse of her standing in the doorway—small and dangerous and somehow vulnerable all at once. Then the door closes, and I'm left with nothing but the hurdy gurdy music still playing in my mind.

# Domestic Intruders

The air fryer beeps as the sandwich finishes cooking. I remove it carefully, using the heat-resistant gloves Jason showed me yesterday. The rich smell of melted cheese fills the kitchen, mingling with the lingering aroma of this morning's bacon. The elexa—or Alexa, as Jason called it—continues playing hurdy gurdy music, the familiar sounds creating an unexpected sense of comfort in this strange dwelling.

I examine the sandwich with clinical precision, noting the perfectly melted cheese and evenly browned bread. The cooking temperature and duration were optimal this time. I've made significant improvement since my first attempt that resulted in a carbonized failure. Adaptation to local technology continues at acceptable rates.

After eating my creation at the kitchen table, I find myself drawn to the device producing the music. The cylindrical object appears harmless, yet Jason's warning about its listening capabilities suggests more complex functionality than initially assessed. A potential security risk, certainly, yet he maintains it in his dwelling without apparent concern.

"Alexa, stop music," I say experimentally.

The blue light ring activates briefly, and the hurdy gurdy falls silent. "Alexa, resume music," I try, and the melody continues exactly where it left off.

Fascinating. The device responds to vocal commands with remarkable accuracy. In my world, such technology would be considered either miraculous or demonic, depending on the clan's philosophical leanings. Here, Jason treats it as commonplace, unremarkable.

Dawson pads into the kitchen, nails clicking against the tile. He sits at my feet, looking up expectantly. His intent is clear—he wants more bacon. I retrieve a small piece from the refrigerator, instructing him to sit as I've observed Jason doing. His compliance is immediate, the command integration impressive for a non-hunting animal.

"You may have this," I tell him, offering the morsel on my open palm. "But only because you have assisted in maintaining optimal body temperature during sleep."

Dawson takes the bacon with surprising gentleness, then trots to his bed to consume his prize. His behavior remains consistent—private consumption of high-value resources. A tactical choice I understand well. In the clan, those who displayed their resources openly often found them taken by stronger members.

"Alexa, stop music," I command, deciding to prepare for Dawson's walk. The device obeys instantly, the hurdy gurdy falling silent.

I attach Dawson's leash with improved efficiency, having mastered the mechanism during yesterday's exercise. The dog's excitement manifests in whole-body wiggling, his tail sweeping wide arcs through the air. Such transparent emotional display would be fatal in my world, where predators target the weak and obvious. Yet here, his enthusiasm seems appropriate, even... endearing.

The outdoor temperature remains well below freezing, though I feel it only as data rather than discomfort. The cold air carries the scent of snow, pine, and the metallic tang of carbon emissions from passing vehicles. Unlike yesterday's route, I choose a different path, directing Dawson south toward the ravine but approaching from an alternate entry point. Tactical awareness requires familiarity with multiple access and egress options.

Dawson moves confidently despite the changed route, suggesting prior knowledge of the area. His nose works constantly, sampling information I can only partially detect. Occasionally he stops to leave scent markers on vertical surfaces—trees, signposts, fire hydrants—establishing territorial presence through chemical communication.

The ravine appears different from this approach, the slope more gradual, the tree cover less dense. Water flows more swiftly at this section of the creek, the surface only partially frozen. Ice forms crystalline patterns along the edges, transparent windows revealing dark water below. In spring, this area would provide excellent fishing opportunities.

I allow Dawson to explore within the constraints of his leash, observing his interaction with the environment. Unlike hunting dogs from my clan, his attention shifts rapidly between stimuli—scents, sounds, visual movement. No single-minded focus on prey, just pure sensory enjoyment. His existence seems simpler, more immediate. Hunt, eat, sleep, seek affection. Basic needs met without constant vigilance.

What would such an existence feel like? The question forms unbidden as I watch him investigate a particularly interesting tree root. To move through the world without constant threat assessment, without calculating survival probabilities for each decision, without the weight of the death oath or the clan's expectations. The concept is so foreign I can barely conceptualize it.

After sufficient exercise, I direct Dawson back toward Jason's dwelling, choosing yet another route to expand my mental map of the area. This path takes us past several similar houses, their designs varying slightly but following the same basic structural principles. Humans visible through windows engage in morning activities—drinking from mugs, staring at glowing rectangles, preparing to exit into the cold.

As we approach Jason's driveway, I notice an unfamiliar vehicle parked beside the house. Black, approximately 2.3 meters in length, with shining wheel covers and a small emblem on the front that resembles a stylized bird with wings spread. The vehicle's presence represents a tactical anomaly—unexpected visitors when Jason specifically stated his parents would arrive around noon.

I tense automatically, hand dropping to where my bow would normally rest. The absence of my primary weapon creates immediate discomfort, though the bone knife remains secure at my hip, concealed beneath Jason's oversized shirt. Dawson shows no alarm, his body language relaxed as we approach. Not a threat he recognizes, then, though his tactical assessment capabilities remain questionable.

Decision: proceed with caution, maintain awareness of retreat options, assess potential threat level before committing to engagement. If hostile forces have occupied the dwelling, immediate withdrawal and regrouping would be the optimal strategy. The creek ravine could provide temporary shelter until Jason returns.

I approach the front door silently, listening for voices or movement inside. Dawson whines softly, tugging toward the entrance with increasing insistence. His behavior suggests familiarity rather than concern. Opening the door requires momentary vulnerability—both hands occupied with key and handle, leaving no immediate defense option.

Risk assessment: proceed. If hostiles occupied the dwelling, they would likely have established external surveillance. My approach has already been noted. Retreat now would appear as weakness, potentially triggering pursuit.

I insert the key with steady hands, turning it with precise pressure. The lock disengages with a soft click, and I push the door open, maintaining optimal position to react to potential threats. Dawson immediately darts inside, tail wagging furiously as he disappears down the hallway.

Two figures stand in the living room, turning toward the entrance as the door opens. Male and female, approximately fifty to sixty years in age, with features that immediately register as genetically related to Jason. The woman's sandy blonde hair holds subtle silver strands, styled in a practical shoulder-length cut. The man stands slightly taller, with a lean build and the same pale blue eyes I've observed in Jason.

The woman smiles, an expression containing complex emotional layers I cannot fully decipher. "Hello there," she says, voice warm yet carrying subtle undertones of assessment. "You must be Grace."

I remain in the doorway, maintaining tactical advantage while calculating optimal responses. These are Jason's parents—Bearee and Magnen, according to his descriptions. Their early arrival creates significant tactical complications for our established narrative.

"Yes," I confirm, stepping inside and closing the door with deliberate movements. "I am Grace Winters."

The calculated addition of the surname Jason and I agreed upon appears to have the intended effect. Both parents' expressions shift subtly—relief mixed with increased curiosity. Good. Our preparation was not wasted.

"I'm Bearee Stone," the woman says, stepping forward with hand extended. "Jason's mother. This is my husband, Magnen."

I accept the handshake, careful to moderate my grip strength. Human greeting rituals serve important social functions, establishing hierarchies and alliances through physical contact. The pressure of Bearee's hand suggests confidence without aggression—a measured introduction rather than a challenge.

"We thought we'd surprise Jason," Bearee continues, her eyes never leaving my face. "The resort's internet went down last night, so we caught an earlier flight than we'd planned."

Magnen moves forward, his gaze systematically cataloging details about me with an engineer's precision. "Jason didn't mention he'd have a houseguest while we were away," he says, tone neutral yet somehow conveying subtle layers of meaning. The statement isn't precisely an accusation, but it clearly seeks explanation.

Tactical assessment: maintain established cover narrative. Position appropriate emotional responses to establish credibility. Appear cooperative while revealing only predetermined information.

"Jason provided shelter when I required it," I explain, removing Dawson's leash and hanging it on its designated hook. "I became separated from my cultural exchange group and lost my belongings. He has been... kind."

Bearee's eyes soften slightly at this, though her analytical gaze never wavers. "Jason has always had a good heart," she says, moving toward the kitchen. "Would you like some coffee, Grace? We've just made a fresh pot."

"Yes," I respond, recognizing the offer as both hospitality ritual and opportunity for extended observation. "Thank you."

As I follow them into the kitchen, I mentally prepare for comprehensive questioning. Jason's absence creates tactical vulnerability in our narrative. Without his supportive presence, maintaining consistency will require perfect recall and careful emotional calibration.

Bearee retrieves a mug from the cabinet, filling it with dark liquid that smells bitter yet strangely appealing. "So, Grace," she begins, her tone conversational though her eyes remain shrewdly observant, "Jason mentioned you're from Romania?"

"A small village," I confirm, accepting the mug with a nod of acknowledgment. "Remote. Very different from here."

Magnen leans against the counter, his posture casual yet somehow conveying focused attention. "What brought you to Toronto in February, of all times? Most visitors prefer our summers."

The question seems innocuous, yet contains subtle probing for inconsistencies. Jason anticipated this line of inquiry—parents who notice structural details, who analyze human behavior with professional precision. The established narrative must hold.

I take a careful sip of coffee, buying precious seconds to formulate my response. The liquid is bitter, strong, yet not unpleasant—much like this interrogation disguised as casual conversation.

"The cultural exchange program operates year-round," I explain, keeping my voice even. "We came to observe winter survival techniques in urban environments. I became separated from my group during a snowstorm."

Bearee nods sympathetically, though the analytical gleam never leaves her eyes. "That must have been frightening. How exactly did you end up at our house?"

The question carries subtle weight—specific details require consistent explanations. Jason and I developed these elements of our narrative with care, anticipating parental scrutiny.

"I was disoriented," I say, injecting appropriate vulnerability into my tone. "The streets looked similar in the snow. I had walked for hours when I recognized this house—or thought I did. It resembled a building from our tour. When Jason answered, I asked for assistance."

Magnen's eyes narrow slightly, the microexpression nearly imperceptible to normal human perception. "And Jason just invited you to stay?"

"Not immediately," I clarify, recognizing the implied question about his son's judgment. "He offered to call local authorities, contact numbers for shelters. When those options proved unavailable due to the storm, he provided temporary shelter."

Bearee exchanges a quick glance with her husband—a silent communication whose meaning I cannot fully decipher. "That sounds like Jason," she says finally, her smile warming slightly. "He's always been one to help first and ask questions later."

"Indeed," I agree, acknowledging this assessment of Jason's character as accurate based on my limited but intense observation of him. "He has been... considerate."

The conversation continues—careful questions requiring equally careful answers. Where exactly in Romania. What the cultural exchange entails. How I'm adjusting to Toronto. Each response must align perfectly with our established framework while allowing for natural elaboration.

Throughout this verbal sparring disguised as friendly conversation, I maintain optimal situational awareness. Bearee's body language suggests professional assessment rather than maternal concern, though both elements are present. Magnen's gaze continues its methodical inventory of the kitchen, noting the two plates in the sink, the air fryer positioned differently than before their departure.

Parents, I realize with growing certainty, represent far more formidable tactical challenges than simple combat opponents. Their weapons are subtle—carefully crafted questions, observational skills honed by decades of practical application, intimate knowledge of their territory and its normal patterns.

As I sip the bitter coffee and navigate this complex social battlefield, I find myself wishing, for the first time since arriving in this strange world, that Jason would return sooner rather than later. His presence would provide tactical advantage through shared narrative responsibility. But beyond that, I simply... want him here.

The revelation creates an unfamiliar sensation beneath my ribs—not pain, not fear, but something adjacent to both. Something I lack adequate terminology to define.

I maintain perfect composure as Bearee refills my coffee mug, asking about my experience with Canadian winters compared to Romania's. But beneath this calm exterior, my mind calculates and recalculates, adjusting to this unexpected development with the same precision I would apply to any survival scenario.

Jason's parents have arrived early. Our carefully constructed narrative faces its first significant test. And I find myself, for perhaps the first time in memory, hoping for another's arrival not for tactical advantage alone, but for reasons I cannot fully articulate even to myself.

The coffee grows cold in my hands as the questioning continues.