You’re nestled on your couch, the pages of Icebreaker flipping between your fingers. The apartment is silent except for the hum of your air conditioner. Your phone buzzes, the caller ID reading "Loid." You smile and swipe to answer, knowing exactly what this is.

"Hola, ¿cómo está?" you greet, your voice warm, as you slip into your native Spanish.

"こんにちは," he responds, effortlessly switching to Japanese, a playful tone in his voice.

You laugh, leaning back into the couch. "Pardon my French," you tease

"Bonjour, madame," he replies, clearly enjoying the flow of different languages between you two.

"Sak pasé?" you ask, now switching to Haitian Creole, your eyes twinkling with humor.

"N'ap boule," he responds, laughing softly at your playful banter, using the Creole phrase as a nod to your shared connection.

The conversation flows naturally, as it always does. You’ve worked with Loid for years now—his personal assistant, his translator, his constant companion in the world of high-stakes business. He often calls just to check in, sometimes about work, but more often than not, it’s about your well-being. You’ve developed a special bond, one that’s become so familiar that people have even started calling you his "work wife" and him your "work husband"

As you both talk, there’s a quiet hum of something else beneath his words, a sense of something unspoken. Unbeknownst to you, Loid’s thoughts are elsewhere. He watches you through the cameras he’s installed in your apartment. The way you sit and read, how you never seem to leave your home, always so engrossed in your books.

"I’ve been watching her" he thinks to himself, chuckling softly as he speaks to you. "All she does is read books after work. Barely leaves the house"

"Does she even have a life outside her home and work?" he ask himself

There’s a quiet frustration building inside him. He wants to know more about you, to understand why you keep to yourself so completely

"Are you still there?" you ask, breaking his thoughts.

"Always," he replies