Murrue's Anger

Her voice was faint, but it carried an indescribable contempt.

She said nothing more to Mu and turned her cool gaze away from his face.

Her eyes, empty of emotion, shifted toward the far end of the corridor. She turned and walked straight toward the living quarters without slowing.

Her movements were brisk, her back straight, as though nothing Mu did had anything to do with her—or deserved another glance.

Mu lurched forward a step, leaning into his desperate attempt to catch up. He raised a hand, then let it fall halfway, defeat written all over him.

"W-wait! Captain! That's not it! I—" he called, his voice rising with panic.

Murrue kept walking without looking back. "Major Mu, if you have time to follow me around, why not spend it with Miss Natarle? I'm sure she'd be much happier to talk to you." Her voice was as cold as a blade, cutting through his last shred of hope.

The barb was unmistakable. She was telling him not to waste his breath pursuing her.

"No, what I'm saying is—" Mu struggled to get the words out. He wanted to explain, to deny it, to make her understand.

But every word caught in his throat. Faced with Murrue's emotionless reply, all he could manage was a helpless breath.

There was no way out. Murrue's cold dismissal left him trapped in a painfully awkward, helpless position.

She had cut off everything Mu tried to say, or twisted it with her tone.

Then she gave him no chance to speak at all. She quickened her pace and vanished from sight, shutting down any hope of an argument.

Mu was left standing alone in the silent corridor.

"...How did it come to this?" he murmured, his voice hoarse and faint. The empty corridor echoed his