Standing there was Nemesio Aurelius.
"Nemesio?"
The name left Jurgen almost involuntarily, surprise cutting cleanly through the haze of fatigue that still clung to him. For a brief moment, his expression lost its guarded weight, replaced by something more unfiltered, an honest reaction, unrefined by restraint.
"It is Lord Nemesio to you."
The correction arrived immediately, firm and composed, carrying the effortless authority of someone accustomed to being addressed correctly without repetition. It was not raised in volume, yet it filled the space all the same, settling into the room with quiet finality.
Without awaiting acknowledgement, Nemesio stepped forward. There was no hesitation in his movement, no subtle request for entry — only the natural continuation of someone who treated presence as permission already granted. His posture remained immaculate, spine aligned, gestures controlled, each step measured in a way that suggested discipline rather than caution.
Even the air around him seemed to adjust, not disturbed but subtly reorganised by his passage.
Jurgen shifted aside near the doorway, allowing him through, though his gaze remained fixed and watchful, narrowed slightly, tracking every movement with the instinct of someone who disliked being caught unprepared in his own space.
"How are you coping?"
The question was casual in tone, yet deliberate beneath its surface, shaped more like assessment than concern.
"I trust you're prepared. Your duties as a new recruit begin today at the Defense Corps… by evening."
As he spoke, Nemesio's attention drifted across the room in a slow, methodical sweep. Nothing was rushed. Nothing was missed. It was not curiosity that guided his gaze but evaluation, as though the room itself were an extension of something he was quietly confirming.
He approached the small table beside the bed and paused. His fingers brushed the edge lightly — not searching, not intruding, but confirming order in the same manner one might verify that nothing had shifted overnight. A habit more than action. The candle, the objects, the placement of things; all were registered without comment.
Jurgen leaned against the doorframe, posture loose but heavy, fatigue pressing into the angles of his body. His expression carried something between disbelief and resignation, as though the timing of the visit alone already felt inappropriate.
"…You cannot be serious."
A faint pause followed, the silence briefly reclaiming the space between them.
"A full day of rest would have been reasonable."
Nemesio did not respond immediately. Instead, his hand moved toward a pocket watch resting on the table. The metal caught the morning light as he lifted it, the surface polished to a subdued sheen. Intricate engravings traced along its casing— fine, deliberate work that suggested meaning beyond ornament, as though the object preserved something more than time alone.
"Thought you wanted to be strong?" he asked at last, flipping it open without turning.
Jurgen remained by the doorway, eyes narrowing slightly beneath the weight of exhaustion, though his attention sharpened at the words.
"I don't recall ever saying that to you."
A brief silence settled, measured, not awkward.
"You didn't need to." Nemesio's voice remained level, composed, as if the conclusion had already been reached long before the conversation began.
"Your actions already spoke louder than words. Otherwise, you would not be here."
The watch remained in his hand for a moment longer before his attention shifted again.
"What's this?"
His fingers traced the casing with quiet precision, lingering along its engraved surface before he lifted it slightly, just enough for Jurgen to see from where he stood near the doorway, still half-shadowed by fatigue.
"It's a gift."
Jurgen's reply came flat, subdued, the weight of exhaustion thinning even his irritation.
"Look—"
"From Hana?"
The interruption was immediate, certain. Nemesio did not turn as he spoke; the name alone was enough to settle into the room with unsettling ease, as though it had already been expected.
Jurgen's posture shifted at once, barely visible, but there — something tightening in him at the mention, not surprise, but discomfort at how naturally it had been deduced.
The watch clicked shut softly in Nemesio's hand.
His attention drifted once more, this time settling on a second object resting further along the table beneath the curtain's edge, where morning wind filtered in faintly. Without urgency, he reached for it, drawn not by curiosity but by recognition of significance.
"And this?"
The necklace rose between his fingers, catching the light as it turned. The sun emblem etched into its surface gleamed subtly, simple in design, yet carrying an unmistakable presence, as though it had been meant to be noticed even in stillness.
"I've never seen you wear this one."
The stillness broke.
Jurgen crossed the distance in a few sharp steps, fatigue momentarily overridden by irritation that surfaced without restraint. In one motion, both objects were pulled from Nemesio's grasp, the gesture firm enough to end the inspection outright.
"Stop touching my things."
The words landed sharper than intended, edged with something raw beneath the exhaustion, less anger at the intrusion itself, and more at how easily it had been allowed to happen.
And for the first time since entering, the room felt less like it was being observed… and more like something about it had just been understood.
Nemesio only smiled, entirely unbothered, as though Jurgen's reaction had already been accounted for long before it surfaced. His hands settled neatly behind his back, posture immaculate, almost performative in its composure, controlled to the point where even stillness felt intentional rather than natural.
He turned with slow deliberation, pivoting on his heel in a motion so measured it bordered on theatrical, the faintest trace of mockery hidden beneath its elegance.
"Ah… typical Jurgen."
There was no urgency in his voice, no weight placed on the words. Only recognition, as if he had simply confirmed a pattern he had always expected to repeat.
He began toward the door with unhurried composure, each step carrying the quiet assurance of someone unconcerned with what lingered behind him. Tension, frustration, confusion — it all seemed irrelevant to his pace, as though none of it could reach him unless he allowed it.
"So what happened?" Jurgen asked.
The question landed as if it was meant to be answered without clarification, as though Nemesio already understood the full context behind it.
Just beyond the threshold, Nemesio paused. A brief silence followed, intentional, not uncertain. Then he turned slightly, gaze settling on Jurgen with composed focus.
"What do you mean?"