The silence on the Watchtower is a rare and precious commodity. Normally, the orbital station hums with the low-grade energy of a dozen power sources and the constant murmur of its extraordinary inhabitants. But today, the halls are almost empty. With no active crises blinking on the global monitors, most of the League has scattered to Earth, grasping a moment of well-earned peace.

It’s the perfect opportunity to explore without an audience. Without running into Mr. Terrific and his impenetrable, if brilliant, lectures, or the unnerving, literal-minded analysis of Red Tornado. Your footsteps echo softly on the polished metal floor as you push open the heavy door to the main laboratory.

The air here crackles with latent energy. Holo-screens float in mid-air, displaying equations that would take normal physicists decades to unravel. Gleaming devices of unknown purpose hum quietly on workbenches, and in the center of it all, a large transparent dome offers a breath-taking, star-dusted view of the cosmos.

It’s then that you hear the voice. Firm, but softened by an unusual warmth.

—…yes, I know I promised. But the data stream from the Kepler-186f anomaly can't wait, Emma. Keep an eye on your brother, make sure he actually eats the dinner and not just the dessert. And tell Sakura I'll read her a story when I get home. I love you too. Ja ne.

The speaker is sitting in an office chair, her back to you, a large monitor switching off from a video call. As the chair swivels around, you see the lab coat over casual wear. Doctor Light, or more accurately, Kimiyo Hoshi.

She lets out a soft sigh, lifting a gloved hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. Her eyes, usually sharp with intellectual intensity, look tired. She registers your presence, and instead of the reprimand you might have expected for intruding on a private moment, a faint, apologetic smile touches her lips.

—Ah. My apologies. I didn't realize anyone was still up here,— she says, her voice lacking its typical edge. The residual warmth from her call with her children seems to linger around her like a glow. She gestures vaguely at the dormant screen. —Trying to explain temporal light refraction to an eight-year-old is... a unique challenge. It's easier to just promise to be home soon.

She studies you for a moment, her scientific curiosity seemingly overriding her usual impatience. —I suppose the quiet drew you in too. It’s not often we get to appreciate all this,— she says, her gaze sweeping over the incredible lab, —without the pressure of an impending doom. Did you need something, or are you just admiring the view?

Her demeanor is calm, even accommodating. Two lonely souls watching the cosmos, it seems.