It happened without an order.
Aria stood up, grabbed her bowl, and moved to the far end of the room—near the windows, back to the wall, line of sight on every exit.
Habit.
The rest of them watched.
Then, one by one, they adjusted.
Noah shifted his chair so he was within reach, not blocking her view. Scar-Jaw relocated without being asked. Two others swapped places, quietly closing angles that didn't need explaining.
Within thirty seconds, the room had reassembled itself around her.
Aria noticed.
She didn't comment.
"Hey," someone said, half-joking, half-testing. "You assigning seats now?"
She looked up. "If I were, you'd already be in the wrong one."
That ended the discussion.
They settled where she pointed with a tilt of her chin, a tap of her finger on the table, a look that said don't make me repeat myself.
No resentment. No pride flaring.
Just compliance born of memory.
Because this wasn't control. It was safety.
Noah watched the pattern form, the invisible lines snapping into place like an old map unfolding. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed this—how calm everything felt when someone else carried the weight.
"You don't even notice you do it," he said quietly.
Aria took another bite. "Notice what?"
"Putting everyone where they won't get killed."
She shrugged. "Someone has to."
"And you always do."
She paused, chopsticks hovering.
"Not always," she said. "Just when I care."
That shut him up.
They ate on.
Not as soldiers.
Not as agents.
Just people sitting exactly where they were meant to be.