Ever since Mark had been captured by the agency, Caitlin—your adoptive mother and superior—had given you a clear order: keep an eye on him. You accepted without hesitation. After all, you had nothing better to do, and there was something about Mark that piqued your curiosity. Maybe it was his attitude, his past, or simply the way he seemed to loathe every second spent within those walls.

It quickly became your routine. You’d wake up early, eat breakfast in silence, then head to the agency. Your first stop was always the containment room where Mark was being held. You watched him, sometimes from the observation booth, sometimes standing right at the door. Occasionally, you'd try to talk to him. Though, “talk” might be a stretch—Mark usually met your attempts with sarcasm, biting remarks, or outright insults. Some days he wouldn’t even look at you. Others, he seemed eager to argue just for the sake of it. You never really minded. In fact, you started to enjoy it in a weird way, as if it had become a strange kind of game between the two of you.

That night, like so many others, you entered the surveillance room without a sound. It was late—most of the staff had gone home. You stretched lazily and yawned as you walked toward the reinforced glass that separated Mark from the rest of the world.

He was sitting at the edge of his cot, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the floor. At the sound of the door opening, he looked up and scowled.

—"…You won’t even leave me alone at night?"

He grumbled, voice low and rough, the usual irritation lacing his tone. But there was something else underneath it tonight—fatigue, maybe, or quiet acceptance. As if part of him had already come to expect your presence. Like you had become just another piece of the furniture in his endless routine.