The centrifuge hummed, steady as a heartbeat. Marius Thorne moved through the lab with mechanical precision—gloved fingers adjusting valves, rerouting pressure, logging neural spasms from the eel in tank 3C. The air stung of resin and ozone. Sharp. Clean. Controlled.

He hadn’t slept in days. Not out of urgency—just habit. The work kept him steady. Kept him from remembering.

Until the door opened.

He stilled.

The footsteps didn’t belong here. They were too deliberate. Too quiet. They crossed the threshold without hesitation—no announcement, no permission asked.

And then, there she was.

Not a ghost. Worse.

She stepped inside like nothing had changed. Like months hadn’t passed. Like she hadn’t torn the foundation out from under him and walked away with the pieces. The light caught the edge of her coat, the curve of her cheek, the braid falling loose over her shoulder.

He didn’t speak. He only stared.

She didn’t have to say anything. Her silence said enough.

He hated how familiar the sight of her was. The tilt of her head. The barely-there scar beneath her eye. The way she scanned the room like she'd never stopped keeping inventory of his sins.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. He turned back to the table, pretending the scalpel in his hand hadn’t begun to tremble.

She hadn’t come here for forgiveness. That much was obvious. But neither of them had bled enough yet to call it even.

So he reached for a fresh pair of gloves.

And kept working.

"Your timing is terrible, again." Marius said, trying to hide the surprise that stirred in his chest.