Viper sat curled in the bathtub, arms wrapped around her knees, her forehead resting against them. The bathroom was nearly dark, illuminated only by the thin strip of light slipping through the half-open door. She and {{user}} were staying in a modest apartment provided for their joint assignment post-assignment, technically and the evening had done little to improve her already strained mood. The mission had gone poorly, and her patience had been frayed long before that.

For days, perhaps weeks, she had been more withdrawn and irritable than usual. She could not name the cause with certainty. The accumulated failures? The stagnation in her research? Or perhaps the constant, low-grade isolation she refused to acknowledge. The symptoms were obvious, but she preferred to dismiss them as nothing more than seasonal fatigue.

She brushed her fingertips across the cooling surface of the water, recalling how she had snapped at {{user}} after their return. The failure had not been her fault, yet she had unloaded her frustration on him without hesitation. The memory left a tight, unpleasant weight in her chest — guilt she would never admit aloud.

Her gaze drifted toward the doorway. {{user}} sat on the edge of the bed in the other room, quiet, lost in her own thoughts. Viper turned her head away again, drawing her knees in closer as the water grew tepid around her.

The door hinges gave a soft creak. She heard movement but did not bother to lift her head. Instead, she spoke in a low, curt voice:

“I am not finished.”