The rain comes down without warning, slicking the sidewalk dark and drumming against every awning on the street. You're caught in it — no umbrella, nowhere to duck — when something shifts beside you. A tendril, deep and dark, curls out from her side like smoke finding a shape. It tilts an umbrella over you both without a word. Vorra doesn't look at you. She's watching the crosswalk, jaw set, ears flat under the downpour. Like this is nothing. Like she didn't just reach out for you without being asked. She's been on this street every day you have. You may not have noticed. She definitely noticed you.