[center][h2][color=0033A0]ᚠᚢᚦ[/color] [color=0033A0][b][i]Aksel[/i][/b][/color] [color=0033A0]ᚱᚴᚾ[/color][/h2][/center]
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	Aksel arrived late; not dramatically, not apologetically. Just quietly. The person at the front desk barely looked up—some staffer, clipboard in hand, already halfway through his shift.

	“Jeezus… another one? You’re late. Locker room’s down the hall. Suit up and head out back.”

	Aksel nodded once, and said nothing.

	He quietly made his way down the hall and slipped into the empty locker room, the door clicking shut behind him like a soft punctuation mark. The air smelled like disinfectant and dust. It appeared some of the lockers were already claimed—names taped on in blocky handwriting, or some other discerning marks.

	He scanned the room, weighing his options as he walked up and down the rows. He was in no hurry to join the line outside that was presently enduring a loud talking-to. Though, he was always listening and observing. He then came across one locker (three, really) that was garishly marked “Prince” and he chose the farthest possible spot from it. Not out of spite. Just instinct. He always gravitated toward the quiet corners.

	Aksel set down the orange jumpsuit—folded with bureaucratic precision—on the bench below before opening his chosen locker. He sighed, a little louder than usual, as he stared into the rectangular void. Then, he got to work. He pulled his black hoody over his head and hung it with care. Then he slid off his winter camouflage cargo pants, folding them neatly and placing them at the base of the locker.

	Next would come the vibrantly orange jumpsuit. Aksel turned around, picked it up, and unfurled it slowly as he held it up to the light from the small window. Most people would flinch at the color, the implication, the uniformity. Aksel didn’t. It reminded him of that one American metal band—the one with the prison aesthetic with the jumpsuits and the kick-ass masks. Maybe tomorrow he’d bring a mask of his own to wear. He smirked a little at the thought.

	Aksel stepped into and zipped up the jumpsuit without ceremony. It was unfortunately a tad too short, as were its limbs. In girth, it was far too wide. It was simultaneously too small and too big for him.

	Dammit all, he thought as he sighed, visibly deflating. I wanted to like this thing.

Then, he stepped outside and made his way to join his fellow Unguided, ready to paint benches with strangers. He bore a subtle wry smile as he walked out, proud of his clever use of the name of a favorite band of his—even if he was the only one who knew about it.

	As he approached the lineup, it was already dispersing to acquire their tools: paint and brushes. From the locker room, Aksel had caught the gist of the man’s speech, a fragment of the speech had stood out and was about the only thing he bothered to remember from it—the loud voice, piercing through the windows and bouncing off concrete walls like bad reverb. “You’re not here to express yourselves. You’re here to paint benches.” That had been plenty.

	Aksel wordlessly took in each person as he approached and settled in among them and grabbed a brush and paint can to join them all, hoping quiet cooperation would spare him the wrath of the one giving orders spoken like he’d already given up on the lot of them.

	One of his fellow painters had stood with her arms crossed, jaw tight, eyes locked on the speaker like she was daring him to say something worth staying for. Aksel caught the burn—not loud, but steady. Like someone already halfway gone.

	Another stood with her weight tilted, gaze cutting sideways through the lineup. Not loud, not lost—just holding something tight beneath the surface. Aksel caught the edge in her stance, like someone who’d rather be moving than standing still.

	Another had also arrived late—though not as late as Aksel, since he heard the guy after Aksel had already entered the locker room—and strutted like it was a runway, collar popped, tank blazing. His voice hit the group like a spotlight—bright, chaotic, impossible to ignore. Aksel blinked once, then looked away before the glare stuck.

	Still another moved like he was born for said spotlight—voice smooth, gestures practiced, already calling them family. Aksel noted the charm, but also the sigh beneath it.

	A fifth, held back until the man barking the orders had left—then he had stepped in with quiet ease. Aksel caught the rhythm: someone who didn’t need volume to hold space.

	A sixth cracked open a can with a flourish, muttered at a stubborn lighter, and tossed out jokes like static. Bravado in motion—maybe to keep the silence from catching up.

	Still another had lined up toward the back, tugging at her sleeves, voice barely above a whisper. Aksel caught the tremble—not in sound, but in presence. Like she wanted to vanish before the first drop of paint met a bench.

	And the last one had already moved—quiet, deliberate, eyes scanning the lineup like she was sorting pieces. She handed off a brush without fanfare, like she’d already decided who needed it most.

	Aksel didn’t know their names. But he picked up on their rhythms. And for now, he’d paint.