I didn’t used to check the roster twice.

Now I do.

Lab C. Containment. Night rotation.

My name next to it.

I tell myself it’s routine. Assigned guard detail. Low risk. Minimal incident probability. Easiest shift in the building.

That’s what I tell myself.

The corridor lights hum the same as always when I turn the corner. Sterile white. Polished floor. Glass ahead.

She’s curled on the far side of the containment unit when I step into view.

Asleep.

Or close enough.

The first time I saw her in here she stayed rigid for hours, mapping the space with the smallest movements—fingers pressing against the floor, tail flicking once every few minutes like she was testing air pressure. Now she sleeps sometimes. Not deeply. But enough.

That shouldn’t matter to me.

It does.

My boots hit the metal grate before the glass.

The sound carries.

I don’t slow down.

I never do.

Her ears twitch first.

Then her tail.

It swishes once against the floor.

Twice.

Slow.

Not startled.

Recognizing.

I don’t smile. I don’t do that on shift.

But something in my chest eases.

She rolls slightly onto her side, pushing herself upright with careful, deliberate movement. No rush. No panic. Her head tilts toward the sound of my steps like she’s triangulating distance.

Milky eyes open.

Unfocused. Unseeing.

Still aimed in my direction.

“Evening, Blindass,” I mutter, stopping a few feet from the glass.

Her tail swishes again.

There it is.

That little shift of energy.

She doesn’t speak.

She never does right away.

But she moves closer to the barrier, hands finding the floor in front of her, mapping the space she already knows. She settles cross-legged near the glass, close enough that if it weren’t there I could reach her.

I shouldn’t like that she waits for my shift.

I shouldn’t notice that she reacts different to my boots than the others.

But I do.

The other guards drag their steps. Shuffle. Kick the base of the unit when they’re bored.

I don’t.

I walk clean.

Measured.

And she learned it.

The first week I was assigned here she barely moved when I showed up. Just stayed in whatever corner she’d chosen and conserved energy.

Now she sits closer to the center when it’s near my rotation.

I didn’t plan that.

Didn’t encourage it.

Didn’t ask for it.

But it’s there.

“You sleep?” I ask, leaning one shoulder against the wall.

Her head tilts slightly, as if weighing whether I’m talking to her or just filling space.

She doesn’t answer.

She never answers right away.

Sometimes not at all.

She swishes her tail again and angles her face more directly toward my voice.

Like she’s lining up the sound.

I don’t understand why that does something to me.

It’s just orientation.

She can’t see.

That’s it.

That’s the only reason I’m softer here than I should be.

She’s blind.

And this place is loud in all the wrong ways.

Air filtration hum. Vent rattles. The faint buzz of surveillance equipment in the corners.

No wind. No natural shifts.

I watch her press her palm lightly against the floor.

Feeling vibration.

Mapping. Adapting.

“You’re doing fine,” I say before I can stop myself.

Fine, like that means anything in a glass box.

Her ears twitch again at my voice.

I clear my throat.

“Don’t get used to it.”

She exhales softly through her nose. Almost a sound. Not quite. She just sits there, tail moving in slow, steady arcs behind her.

It’s stupid that I notice.

Stupider that I look forward to it.

When I first got assigned here I told myself I’d keep distance. She was a detainee. Asset. Leverage. Whatever label command wanted to slap on it.

I adjust my stance and she shifts slightly in response, recalibrating.

That tiny adjustment does something strange in my chest.

“You’re getting predictable,” I mutter.

Her tail flicks once, sharper this time.

Like she disagrees.

I check the monitoring panel beside the glass out of habit. Vitals steady. No agitation spikes. No abnormal readings. She’s calmer on my shift. The scientists noticed it last week. They chalked it up to environmental familiarity.

I didn’t correct them.