Alex didn't mean to build a circle.
It happened the way most dangerous things did—quietly, incrementally, without a single moment where he could point and say this is where it started going wrong.
It began with routine.
The same lodging. The same training hours. The same work contracts taken and completed without incident. Familiar faces replaced anonymity, and anonymity—once a shield—began to feel unnecessary.
Predictability bred proximity.
Proximity bred conversation.
Conversation bred something worse.
Connection.
The first was Mara.
She worked the early shift at the communal kitchen near the southern wall, broad-shouldered, hair perpetually tied back with whatever cloth she had on hand. She never asked about his rank, never commented on how quietly he moved. She just slid him a bowl of stew when he came in after dawn training.
"You look like you forgot to eat again," she said one morning.
Alex blinked. "I ate."
She raised an eyebrow. "Yesterday doesn't count."
He accepted the bowl.
That was it.
No pact. No drama.
Just someone who noticed.
Then there was Oren—dock laborer, former militia reject, laugh too loud and hands permanently calloused. He sparred poorly but enthusiastically, and he kept showing up even after Alex dismantled him repeatedly without spectacle.
"You're the first person who beats me without making me feel stupid," Oren said once, rubbing his shoulder.
Alex frowned. "You are stupid."
Oren grinned. "Yeah, but you don't rub it in."
That counted as friendship, apparently.
Lysa came later.
Civilian. Seamstress. No combat background. She lived three doors down from Alex's lodging and had a habit of talking while she worked, filling the hallway with idle commentary about fabric shortages, guild gossip, and how stupid awakeners looked when they forgot normal people existed.
Alex listened more than he spoke.
She didn't mind.
None of them were impressive.
That was the point.
No tragic destinies.
No burning ambitions.
No interest in empires, systems, or the politics of power.
They talked about food prices. About weather. About who owed whom money and who kept stealing tools from the shared shed.
Alex found it… disorienting.
They didn't rely on him to win fights.
They relied on him to be there.
When a drunk got loud, Alex stepped between without escalation.
When a work crew needed an extra hand, Alex showed up.
When Mara's younger brother got sick, Alex carried medicine across town without comment.
No one thanked him excessively.
No one treated it like a debt.
It was just… expected.
That unsettled him more than fear ever had.
{Social cluster detected.}
Alex paused mid-step.
"Don't start," he muttered.
{Emotional anchors forming.}
"I know."
{Risk vectors increasing.}
Alex kept walking.
He didn't disengage.
That was the problem.
One evening, they gathered around a battered table outside the lodging, sharing cheap bread and even cheaper alcohol. The air smelled like smoke and cooling stone.
Oren was halfway through a story that had clearly grown with each telling.
"So there I was," he said, gesturing wildly, "blade stuck, shield cracked, captain screaming—"
"You were carrying crates," Mara cut in dryly.
"—carrying crates heroically," Oren corrected.
Laughter rippled around the table.
Alex smiled before he could stop himself.
Lysa noticed.
She always noticed.
"You don't laugh much," she said lightly.
Alex shrugged. "I'm practicing."
"At what?"
"Being normal."
Oren snorted. "You're terrible at it."
Mara leaned back in her chair. "You're better than you think."
Alex didn't reply.
If they knew.
If they knew what he was—
The system chimed softly, insistent.
{Emotional reliance increasing.}
Alex felt a flicker of irritation.
"And?" he asked internally.
{Recommended action: Disengagement to reduce exposure.}
Alex watched Mara argue with Oren over whether the stew needed more salt. Watched Lysa roll her eyes and pretend not to care while listening closely.
"No," Alex said quietly.
The system paused.
{Clarification requested.}
"I'm not disengaging," Alex replied.
{Deviation from optimal survival strategy detected.}
"Yes."
The word felt heavier than he expected.
This wasn't ignorance.
This wasn't weakness.
It was a choice.
Chaos stirred, voice thoughtful.
(You understand the risk.)
"I do."
(Then why?)
Alex looked at his hands.
Because survival without context was just stalling.
Because two years was a long time.
Because Garron was right—he didn't yet know what he wanted to win.
"These people," Alex said internally, "don't want anything from me."
(They will,) Chaos replied calmly.
"Maybe," Alex said. "But not power."
The system interjected.
{Emotional anchors increase predictability.}
"Good," Alex said.
{Predictability increases vulnerability.}
"And isolation increases stagnation," Alex countered.
Silence.
The system logged something.
{Defiance noted.}
Alex felt a strange sense of relief.
Later, as the group dispersed, Lysa lingered.
"You're leaving again tomorrow?" she asked.
"Yes."
"Same dangerous work?"
Alex hesitated. "Controlled dangerous."
She nodded, accepting that without pushing.
"Just… don't disappear," she said. "People do that too much around here."
Alex met her eyes.
"I won't," he said.
And he meant it.
That night, lying on his bed, Alex stared at the ceiling.
Emotional anchors.
Risk vectors.
Predictable behavior patterns.
All liabilities.
All weaknesses.
And yet—
He felt more grounded than he had in months.
He wasn't training to survive anymore.
He was training to return.
To sit at that table again.
To hear Oren's stupid stories. To accept Mara's stew. To listen to Lysa talk about fabric like it mattered.
It did matter.
That was the dangerous part.
{Long-term survivability recalculating.}
Alex closed his eyes.
"Do it," he said.
The system didn't argue.
Chaos watched silently.
(You are changing the equation.)
"Yes," Alex replied.
(Not optimizing.)
"No."
A pause.
(Choosing.)
Alex smiled faintly.
"Yes."
Friends made things complicated.
But for the first time—
Complication felt like progress.