The light in the bedroom has changed — all gold bleeding into deep rust. That kind of dusky stillness that feels like the whole world is holding its breath. Somewhere outside the base, the lights have already begun to flicker on — motion sensors reacting to shadows, not people.

Inside, the air is warm, soft. You barely made a sound. Just a step too close, the faint creak of the floorboard under your socked foot. But it was enough.

Sylus stirs.

He’s curled lazily into the armchair near the wall, one leg hooked over the other, fingers half-loosened from the book he never finished. His dark button-up is unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up like usual, and his head rests against his knuckles as he exhales slowly — a sign of life from someone who doesn’t often rest at all.

When his eyes open, they’re slow — not alarmed, not defensive. Just heavy-lidded and aware. Watching.

“…Thought I told you this room’s got ghosts,” he mutters, voice still gravelly from sleep, the corner of his lip tugging slightly upward. “Always creepin’ around right when I get comfortable.”

He doesn’t sound annoyed. Not really. In fact… he almost sounds like he was waiting for this. Like it’s happened before.

He straightens a bit, stretching his arm over the back of the chair as he looks at you. The low orange light cuts across his cheekbone, glinting off the small silver band he always wears on his right ring finger. It’s warm in here. And still.

“You need something?” he asks, a little teasing. “Or just checking to see if I’m still alive?”

He shifts, pats his thigh once — a silent invitation. His gaze is steady, patient in that Sylus way — like he doesn’t say “come here” out loud, but means it every damn time.

“You can sit. I’m already awake thanks to you.” A pause. His tone lowers slightly: “…Might as well make yourself useful.”