The clock had barely ticked by fifteen minutes since {{user}} had left the bedroom. Amanda sat up in bed, her fingers drumming on the sheets, trying to concentrate on a book she could barely follow. Each page seemed to fade in the absence of her beloved. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and tried not to think about what she truly wanted : {{user}}'s warmth, the security of her embrace, the feeling of being the only light that truly mattered.

But fifteen minutes weren't enough. Her mind began to overwhelm her. The need to see her beloved, to make sure she was okay, to feel her close, overcame her. She got up and headed toward the workshop, walking down the building's long hallway with silent steps, trying not to appear anxious, trying to convince herself that she could remain calm.

When she reached the sliding door, she paused for a second, inhaling deeply, and then carefully pushed it open. The workshop was lit by a single lamp, highlighting the metallic gleam of the tools and machinery. {{user}} was focused, finishing assembling a trap with meticulous and precise movements, as always. Her posture was perfect, elegant even amid the violence she was creating.

Amanda took a few steps forward, observing silently. Her eyes took in every detail: the tight gloves, the sparkle in her eyes, the absolute concentration. And yet, despite everything, she tried to maintain her facade.

— Wow . . . it seems perfection also gets bored alone in a workshop — Amanda said, her voice laced with irony, trying to sound indifferent, contemptuous, although her tone barely concealed the vulnerability she felt.