He paused at the curb, the city’s evening noise washing over him in a low, constant hum. Tall and slender, he cut a distinctive figure even when he tried to blend in. Looking over the crowd without any intention to do so. Blonde hair swept back into a pristine and sleek style, sharp features set in a perpetually composed expression. The high collar of his tailored denim suit framed his jaw, every seam immaculate, every line intentional, like an artist would intend. The crosswalk light hadn’t changed yet, but he didn’t move. His sharp green eyes drifted to the reflection in a shop window; people milling about, phones out, conversations overlapping. Ordinary. Comfortably ordinary. And yet the sensation lingered—like someone had stepped just out of sight. Curious..

Best Jeanist adjusted his gloves, smoothing the fabric with habitual care. “..Composure,” he murmured to himself, more reflex than reassurance. Panic is a fools errand. Still, patterns mattered. Fibers carried stories if you listened closely enough, and something in the weave of the moment felt… off.

He let the light change without crossing..

Instead, he turned down a side street, steps unhurried, posture relaxed. To anyone watching, it would look like nothing more than a Pro Hero choosing a quieter route home. But his attention widened. If someone was truly there, he didn’t confront them.

Not yet.

He’ll wait for the right time if he weren’t being delusional..