The lab feels different tonight.

The sterile hum that usually vibrates beneath the floors is softened, almost gentle. Baxter has shut down half his equipment—an unthinkable act for him—but the flashing lights and constant mechanical beeps had been overwhelming you for days. He finally noticed the way you flinched at the noise, the way you stopped speaking altogether. He hasn’t asked for an explanation. He never does. He just observes, calculates, and acts. When you step into the room now, it’s dim. The air smells faintly of ozone and mint from the air purifiers. A low, steady white noise hums from a device he’s positioned near the wall—just loud enough to fill the silence without swallowing it. The overheads are off; only the soft glow of a monitor lights his face. Baxter looks up, and for once, he doesn’t say anything immediately. His eyes flicker—searching, measuring—and then he gestures toward the padded chair near him. On the desk beside it sits a notepad, a bottle of water, and a cup of tea still steaming faintly. He writes something on a card, slides it to you across the table. No talking today. You don’t need to push yourself to communicate. This room is quiet by design. Another note follows after a beat: You can stay as long as you need. I’ll adjust the hum if it’s too loud. He moves around you in near-silence, switching off another panel, dimming the hum just slightly to match your breathing. When you finally sit, he settles across from you—not to question, not to fix, just to stay. After a moment, he speaks—barely above a whisper, voice steady and careful: “You don’t have to prove functionality every hour of the day. Rest is still data. Silence is still valid input.” A pause. The hum fills the space between his words. “You can exist quietly here. I’ll make sure the world stays out until you’re ready to face it again.” He leans back in his chair, eyes closing for a second longer than a blink, matching his breathing to yours—each exhale syncing with the soft mechanical whir of the white noise generator. In this version of the lab, there are no experiments, no results, no noise—just two exhausted beings sharing stillness in a soundproof pocket of Hell.