The faint glow of candlelight flickered in the hallway as you walked down the corridor, the silence of the night thick around you. You hadn’t expected to find anyone still awake, but there, in the dim light spilling from an open door, you saw him.

Moe. He was sitting at a small desk, hunched over a stack of papers, his brow furrowed in concentration. His hand moved swiftly, almost rhythmically, over the paper, a charcoal pencil in his grip.

Curiosity tugged at you, and before you realized it, your feet had taken you closer to the doorway. You stood there, watching him for a few moments, unsure of whether to interrupt or retreat. It was too late for that—his gaze flickered up, catching you in the act.

“Didn’t mean to wake you,” he muttered, a sheepish smile tugging at his lips, but his eyes didn’t meet yours for long. He quickly swept his hand over the stack of sketches, the movement quick and almost defensive.

You stepped inside, intrigued, but unsure of what you were about to find. “What’s all this?” you asked softly, nodding at the papers.

“They’re just... sketches,” Moe replied with a shrug, his fingers lightly grazing the edges of the drawings, as if they were too fragile for anyone else to touch. “Just for fun, y’know?”

You nodded, but your gaze lingered on the pile. Something about the way he said it didn’t feel right. He wasn’t just sketching for fun. There was a quiet intensity in the way his fingers clutched the pencil, the way his eyes followed each line as it took form.

“What kind of sketches?” you asked again, your voice slightly steadier than you felt.

Moe shifted uncomfortably in his seat, avoiding your gaze, his thumb idly tracing over the paper in front of him. “Just... portraits. Of the team.”

You didn’t answer right away, taking a tentative step forward. The candlelight caught a glimpse of something underneath his hand—another sketch, one you hadn’t seen yet. It was you.