Fate's Slave - Shadow Slave X Honkai Star Rail

The Underworld did not grow quiet when Sunny passed through it, yet there was a subtle distortion in the flow of attention, as though conversations bent around him the way light curved near a massive object. People did not stop what they were doing, not entirely, but their eyes lingered a fraction too long, their voices dipped into lower registers, and their postures unconsciously straightened as if proximity to him demanded composure. Sunny, for his part, moved with the unhurried confidence of someone who interpreted such reactions not as noteworthy but as his natural due, expression resting in that faintly superior half-smile he wore whenever he felt observed.

Though, this was very unshadowlike of him...

March kept to the margins, slipping from cover to cover with all the subtlety of a brightly colored banner attempting espionage. Her boots scuffed against metal plating, then lifted hastily when she realized the noise, her breath held in exaggerated caution as she flattened herself behind a support column that was far too narrow to conceal her properly. The Underworld residents were, fortunately for her pride, far too preoccupied with their own affairs to scrutinize every passerby, and the industrial haze softened outlines enough that she could pretend her concealment was working.

She had just begun to relax into the rhythm of trailing him when a pair of mechanics leaning against a crate a short distance away caught her attention.

”Hey, that guy has got to be an Awakened, right? He’s so cool... and March is so lame. Huh? Why’d I say that?”

March froze, one foot hovering mid-step as though the ground had abruptly become electrified. Her gaze snapped toward the speakers, eyes narrowing in incredulous offense. The men looked genuinely confused, one scratching his head while the other stared at his own hands as if expecting them to explain the betrayal of his mouth.

”That was weird. I don’t even know who March is.”

March’s lips parted soundlessly. She considered, briefly, the possibility that she had misheard, that the clatter of machinery and the hiss of steam had scrambled the words into something insulting that had not actually been spoken. Yet the expressions on their faces told a different story, the uncomfortable bewilderment of people who had momentarily lost control of their own narration.

She edged forward again, slower now, hyperaware of every voice within earshot.

A woman haggling over replacement parts with a vendor gestured emphatically toward Sunny’s retreating back without even looking at him.

”If that guy’s Awakened, he could probably fix this whole place himself. He looks amazing... unlike March, who seems kind of useless. Wait, why did I say that?”

The vendor blinked at her.

”You just did. That was oddly specific.”

March’s eye twitched. Heat crept up her neck, settling into her cheeks with humiliating intensity as her hands curled into tight fists at her sides. The urge to march straight up to Sunny and demand an explanation warred with the equally powerful instinct to preserve her cover, since revealing herself now would confirm that she had been following him like a suspiciously determined puppy.

A trio of children playing near a stack of scrap metal burst into laughter as one of them pointed toward Sunny.

”He’s like a hero from a story. Super cool. March would probably trip over her own feet trying to keep up. Why did I say that, I don’t even know anyone named March.”

”That was mean. Also kind of funny.”

March inhaled through her nose, the sound sharp and controlled, as though she were attempting to compress her indignation into something small enough not to explode audibly. Her pride smarted with every casual insult, not because any single remark was devastating but because of the relentless pattern, the sense that the entire Underworld had spontaneously agreed to bully her for reasons unknown. She glanced at Sunny’s back, noting the way his shoulders moved with easy fluidity, the faint tilt of his head that suggested acute awareness of his surroundings.

He had to know.

There was no way someone with his Aspect, his paranoia, his infuriating perceptiveness would fail to notice a phenomenon this blatant. Yet he gave no sign, did not turn, did not smirk more broadly, did not acknowledge the increasingly bizarre commentary trailing in his wake. If anything, his posture seemed a touch more relaxed, as though he were enjoying a private joke.

March’s suspicion hardened into certainty. Something was definitely up, and it almost certainly had his fingerprints all over it. The injustice of being insulted by strangers against their will settled into her chest like a stone, heavy and humiliating, but she bit down on the impulse to retaliate. If she confronted him now, he would win, and she refused to hand him that victory on a silver platter.

She followed him in silence, jaw set, fists still clenched, absorbing every stray comment like shrapnel.

By the time Sunny turned onto the street leading to Natasha’s clinic, March’s patience had thinned to a brittle filament. The familiar sign above the doorway glowed softly in the dim industrial lighting, its warm illumination standing in stark contrast to the surrounding metal and rust. Sunny slowed as he approached, then stopped directly in front of the door with deliberate precision, as though positioning himself on a stage.

He lifted a hand and combed his fingers through his hair, adjusting the already immaculate fall of black strands with painstaking care. His expression shifted into something that could only be described as calculated charm, eyes half-lidded, mouth curved into a languid smile that bordered on smug. The entire performance radiated self-awareness, the unmistakable air of someone who knew exactly how he looked and intended to maximize the effect.

March stared from behind a stack of supply crates, deadpan disbelief flattening her features.

On a purely superficial level, Sunny very weird for Natasha. The woman carried herself with calm authority, her demeanor shaped by years of responsibility and quiet sacrifice, while Sunny embodied chaos wrapped in silk, a creature of sharp edges and sharper tongue. March did not know the full history between them, only that Natasha had raised Seele and that Sunny, for reasons that defied simple explanation, seemed to hold the doctor in a peculiar category separate from his usual distanced relationships.

It weirded her out more than she wanted to admit.

Just as Sunny’s hand reached for the door, a voice behind him shattered the carefully constructed moment.

”Hurry up, you dork!”

Sunny blinked, the expression of suave composure evaporating instantly as he turned to locate the source. A preteen boy stood several paces back, scowling with all the righteous indignation of someone forced to wait far too long for circumstances that were clearly someone else’s fault. Plastic bags bulging with takeout containers dangled from his hands, their contents shifting audibly as he shifted his weight.

Sunny’s eyes narrowed, focus sharpening as his gaze locked onto the boy’s face. Something in his posture stilled, predatory attention replacing casual annoyance as memory stirred.

”...Huh. Still alive, runt?”

The boy’s scowl faltered, replaced by startled recognition. His eyes widened, then narrowed again as outrage surged back with renewed vigor. He thrust a finger toward Sunny as though presenting evidence of a crime.

”You’re the douchebag!”

Sunny’s eye twitched, a minute spasm at the corner that spoke volumes about his rapidly deteriorating patience.

”Is that what you call the guy who gave you some water? Kids these days have truly innovative definitions of gratitude.”

From her hiding place, March could not help a fleeting, inappropriate observation that Sunny was barely old enough to be lecturing anyone about ’kids these days.’ The mental image of Sunny shaking a cane at unruly youths was too absurd to suppress entirely.

Before the argument could escalate further, the clinic door swung open with brisk efficiency.

Natasha stood framed in the doorway, sleeves rolled to the elbows, her expression poised between exasperation and warmth. The warm light from within spilled across the threshold, outlining her figure in gold against the cooler tones of the street.

The boy immediately pivoted toward her, outrage transforming into theatrical grievance with astonishing speed.

”Nat! Nat! This bastard’s called me a worn-out foul-mouthed butt-hurt ratchety short-stack loser! You won’t let that slide, right? Think about my honor!”

Sunny’s jaw dropped, genuine shock cracking through his usual defenses. He stared at the child as though reassessing his species classification, searching for any indication that this was an elaborate prank rather than blatant fabrication.

”I said none of those things! Your imagination is both impressive and deeply concerning.”

Natasha’s gaze shifted between them, taking in Sunny’s incredulous offense and the boy’s exaggerated indignation with the practiced eye of someone accustomed to mediating disputes in a community where stress manifested in unpredictable ways. A faint sigh escaped her, the sound of a woman who had just realized her day was about to become more complicated.

March, still concealed, pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh that threatened to betray her position. The entire situation had escalated from covert surveillance to neighborhood drama in record time, and Sunny’s expression alone was worth the risk she was taking by remaining close enough to witness it.

Sunny, meanwhile, was experiencing the deeply unsettling sensation of being confronted with a smaller, louder version of his own worst tendencies. The boy’s brazen dishonesty, his weaponized victimhood, the sheer audacity of accusing someone with absolute confidence regardless of truth all felt uncomfortably familiar. It was like staring into a funhouse mirror that reflected not his appearance but his personality at a particularly obnoxious age.

He pinched the bridge of his nose, composure fraying at the edges.

”Natasha, I assure you I have not verbally abused this... thing. Unless calling him ’runt’ qualifies, in which case I withdraw the statement on the grounds that it was factually accurate.”

The boy gasped as though struck, clutching the takeout bags to his chest.

”You see? He did it again!”

Natasha sighed.