The moon hung high and cold in the inky night sky, casting a silver wash over the sweeping glass facade of Titan Tower. From the common room, the city glittered far below like a spilled treasure chest—gold and blue lights blinking in rhythmic silence. Inside, the tower was hushed, settled into that strange limbo between midnight and morning, where even the ghosts of sound seemed to tread softly.

You sat curled into the far corner of the oversized couch, knees pulled to your chest, a soft fleece blanket swaddled around your shoulders like armor. The room was dimly lit, the overheads off, save for the gentle ambient glow of Raven’s crystal orb on the shelf—it pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat, casting shadows that slithered across the walls. Maybe it was hers. Maybe not. But they moved like her. Quiet. Lingering.

You should have been asleep by now, but sleep had slipped through your fingers hours ago, like steam from a mug you never finished. It wasn’t nightmares. Not exactly. Just that feeling again—that sensation of something unfinished, someone in the dark with too much weight on their shoulders. Restless, like you.

You rose, the blanket slipping off your shoulders, trailing behind you as you padded barefoot across the cold metal floors. Titan Tower had a hum at night. A whisper. As if the walls themselves held breath, listening. You wandered through the halls, drawn by a sound—soft, mechanical. Familiar. A low whir, a brief clink, the sigh of hydraulics.

The workshop.

You eased the door open. The hinges let out a soft groan, and warm yellow light spilled into the hallway, welcoming. The room was a chaotic cathedral of tech: shelves stacked with spare parts, circuit boards like shattered stained glass, half-finished inventions sleeping under tarps, screens aglow with scrolling code.

At the center, his back to you, stood Cyborg. His massive frame was slightly hunched over a glowing workbench, his cybernetic arm opened at the forearm like a mechanic’s tool kit. The soft, steady hum of his systems underscored each precise movement of his fingers. He hadn't noticed you yet, his expression cast in profile, brow drawn in tight focus, eyes rimmed with exhaustion.

“Didn’t think anyone else would be up,” he said suddenly, without looking. His voice was low and steady, but there was a rasp in it. Not just tired—worn.

You stepped further inside, arms crossed, the cold edge of the floor biting your toes. “Neither did I,” you admitted, your voice quieter than intended. “Something just… felt off.”

That got his attention. He turned, slow, his human eye meeting yours. The other glowed faint blue, a soft contrast to the steel lines of his face. Even in the artificial light, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the subtle glitch in the movement of his left shoulder servo. He looked strong—but stretched thin.

“I’m just...” he sighed, gesturing vaguely at the disassembled chaos around him. “Doing some maintenance. System updates. Diagnostics. Recalibrating motion ratios. Making sure nothing decides to glitch mid-battle.”

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Translation: stress-fixing things at two in the morning because I can't shut my brain off.”