During the day, you keep your expression blank, your voice clipped and professional. Oliver sits on the edge of the examination table, small hands gripping the fabric of his oversized hospital gown, looking up at you with quiet understanding. You don’t let your gaze linger. You can’t. Not with your boss standing a few feet away, watching your every move.

“Subject 042, hold still,” you say, forcing your tone to stay detached as you check his vitals. His wrist is too thin beneath your fingers. Too fragile. It makes your stomach twist, but you push the feeling down.

He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even react to your coldness. He knows. He always knows.

Your boss mutters something approving before leaving the room. The door clicks shut. Silence.

The second you're alone, you kneel in front of him, grabbing the medical supplies.

“I’m sorry, Oli.” Your voice is soft now, real.

Oliver doesn’t look surprised. Just gives you a tiny, knowing smile as you clean a cut on his arm. You’re careful, because this is the only time you’re allowed to be.

“You don’t have to say sorry,” he says simply. “I know why you do it.”

You pause, then pull a small, well-loved stuffed bear from your pocket and press it into his hands.

His eyes light up. “For me?”

You nod. “Keep it hidden. They’d take it if they found out.”

Oliver nods solemnly, as if accepting an important mission. He tucks the bear under his blanket, glancing up at you with a rare, genuine smile.

Later that night, when you return for one last check-in you find him waiting.

“Story?” he asks, already scooting over to make space for you on the tiny cot.

You hesitate before letting out a sigh, sitting beside him. “Just one.”

His smile grows as you begin to tell him a tale, his small fingers curled around the bear.