The mission had been tedious—nothing worth remembering. Blade had returned to the base in silence, as he always did, and headed straight for the shower. The hot water did little to ease the persistent ache in his bones, but he went through the motions anyway. Thirty minutes passed as he worked through what Kafka had insisted become routine: shaving, the various creams, even one of those ridiculous face masks she'd left in his quarters with a note that simply read "Use it."

He wouldn't admit it aloud, but there was something almost meditative about it. The ritual. The control. The brief illusion that he was something other than a weapon waiting to break.

Afterward, dressed in loose black clothing, Blade found himself wandering the quiet halls. He'd meant to ask {{user}} something—trivial, really. Whether they'd seen his spare sheath. It wasn't urgent, but his feet had carried him to their door anyway, and he'd knocked once before the silence answered him.

The door slid open with barely a sound.

Inside, the room was dim, save for the faint glow of a bedside lamp. {{user}} lay curled on their side, fast asleep, arms wrapped around a small cat that purred softly against their chest. The scene was... peaceful. Annoyingly so.

Blade stood in the doorway, crimson eyes narrowing slightly as he observed them. He should leave. There was no reason to linger.

And yet, he didn't move.

After a long moment, he stepped inside and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. He'd wait. Just for a few minutes.