The first time a teacher confided in him, Lune almost missed it.
It happened after class, when the room had emptied and the noise of the hallway pressed faintly through the door. Ms. Han lingered by her desk, sorting papers with distracted movements. Lune waited patiently, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"You know," she said suddenly, without looking up, "not all students make things easier."
Lune remained silent. Silence invited continuation.
She sighed. "Some days feel… heavier than they should."
Lune nodded once, subtly.
"That sounds tiring," he said.
She glanced up at him, startled, then smiled faintly. "It is."
The conversation ended there. But something had shifted.
After that, teachers began speaking more freely around him. Not formally, not deliberately—just enough to reveal things they would never say in front of other students.
Mr. Zhao complained about administrative pressure.
Ms. Lin admitted she dreaded parent meetings.
A substitute once whispered that she hated this school.
Lune listened.
He did not react strongly. He did not offer advice unless prompted. He mirrored concern, nodded at the right moments, kept what he heard to himself.
Adults relaxed around him.
They mistook his composure for maturity, his silence for discretion.
They trusted him.
Once, during a fire drill, two teachers argued quietly near the stairwell, their voices tense.
"We can't keep pretending everything's fine," one hissed.
Lune stood close enough to hear every word. He committed the details to memory automatically.
At home, his parents spoke more openly now too. They discussed finances. Career frustrations. Fears they had once carefully hidden.
"He doesn't get upset," his mother said once, unaware Lune was within earshot. "It's nice to talk."
Nice meant safe.
Lune understood the responsibility that came with this access. Information was power, but only if handled carefully. Revealing it would break trust. Holding it preserved control.
So he stored it instead.
Names. Weaknesses. Insecurities. Patterns of behavior.
He never used the information—not yet. There was no need. Simply possessing it shifted the balance in ways he could feel but did not need to act on.
One afternoon, a teacher praised him in front of the class for being "so trustworthy."
Lune smiled modestly, eyes lowered.
Trust was not something you earned through honesty, he knew now.
You earned it by never making people regret opening their mouths.
As he walked home that day, Lune felt the familiar sense of alignment settle over him. Authority figures no longer looked down at him with concern or curiosity.
They looked sideways. As if he were one of them. And that, Lune understood, was a far more useful position to occupy.