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Kang’s face is impassive. Not annoyed, not amused, just letting it happen. Every so often he lifts an arm and hoists a kid up higher, or steadies one about to tip off. One of the little ones—maybe five, with a gap-toothed grin—leans over and whispers something into his ear. He nods gravely, as if the fate of the world hinges on her words.

A group of adults lingers at the periphery, some watching with a kind of wary pride, others shaking their heads and pretending not to care. No one intervenes. In the weird gravity of Sanctuary, this is as close to normal as things get.

I hang back, hidden in the shadow of a door frame, and watch.

For a long minute, nothing happens except the slow, methodical rearrangement of kids on Kang’s frame. The ones up top want to see who can stay the longest; the ones down low use him as a ladder. The game is simple, brutal, and hilarious.

Then one of the older girls, maybe twelve, shouts: “I bet you can’t even move, mister!” Her tone is half challenge, half dare.

Kang doesn’t answer, but the corner of his mouth twitches.

Another boy pipes up: “He could if he wanted. He’s Authority.”

“That’s not even a real Authority uniform,” the first girl scoffs. “It’s all scribbled.”

Kang glances down at the insignia, then at the kids. “Authority’s gone,” he says, voice flat. “Just a suit now.”

“That means you’re nobody,” the girl fires back, triumphant.

The boy shrugs. “He’s still the tallest.”

“Doesn’t count if you’re sitting.”

This logic is apparently unassailable. The girl wriggles around the side of the crates and shimmies up Kang’s arm until she’s crouched on his shoulder, right next to his ear. She leans in, stage-whispering: “You know, I could be Authority if I wanted. My uncle was a guard before they caught him.”

Kang nods. “Could be,” he agrees, deadpan.

The girl beams, but then immediately looks suspicious. “You’re not going to arrest anybody, are you?”

He shrugs, as if it’s not worth answering.

That sets off a new round of debate among the kids, which devolves quickly into a series of dares and insults. One of the smaller boys, sick of the chatter, grabs both of Kang’s ears and yanks backward like he’s steering a horse.

Kang’s only response is a grunt. He lets the kid do it. Doesn’t even flinch.

A ripple of laughter from the adults. I realize that the weirdest part isn’t that Kang is letting the kids climb him—it’s that he doesn’t seem to hate it. The stiffness in his shoulders is less about bracing for attack, more about not wanting to snap the kids in half if he moves too fast. His face is set, but his eyes flicker with a kind of raw, startled gentleness I’ve never seen before. He is, against all evidence, not completely dead inside.

The girl with the Authority obsession notices me then, and points. “She’s here!” she yells. “The doctor lady! She’s coming to arrest you, mister!”

All the kids turn at once, like a school of fish pivoting on instinct. Kang follows their gaze. For a second, our eyes meet. His mouth twitches again, this time closer to a smile, then he looks away.

I step out from the shadows, hands on my hips. “Am I interrupting?”

“Only a mutiny,” Kang deadpans.

The girl on his shoulder crosses her arms and glares. “We’re not mutineers. We’re engineers. We’re building a lookout.”

One of the younger ones shouts: “Yeah! We can almost see outside from up here!”

“Almost,” echoes another.

I walk closer, careful not to disrupt the delicate balance of bodies. “Is that so? And what’s the plan once you see outside?”

They all talk at once: “Escape!” “Throw stuff!” “Signal the birds!” “See if the sun is real!”

Kang sits through the chaos, unmoved. The kid on his head is now trying to braid the ends of his hair into a makeshift antenna.

I stop at the base of the crates, arms folded. “Sorry to spoil the fun,” I say, “but I need the big Authority man for a top-secret mission.” I pitch my voice in full Authority mock-serious, the way they used to in the block.