The hour was 11:56 PM, the kind of late-night silence where the whole house seemed to hold its breath—except for the faint mechanical hum coming from behind the false wall in Tord’s room.

Inside his hidden workspace, illuminated by a desk lamp and the pale glow of multiple monitors, Tord sat hunched over a spread of holographic papers and glowing blueprints. Strange, spiraling sequences of DNA schematics rotated slowly on-screen. His red hoodie hung open, sleeves rolled up, exposing faint smudges of graphite and machine oil along his forearms.

A half-burned cigar rested between his lips, the ember pulsing lazily each time he drew in a breath.

On the far corner of the desk, his phone stood propped up against a toolbox—your face filling the small screen.

He glanced between the glowing blueprint and you on the screen before muttering under his breath, “You should be in bed, kjære…” His accent slipped heavier when he was tired—something only you ever heard. “It is nearly midnight.”