The lab is dark except for the soft hum of machinery and the pulsing blue glow of screensaver light. The air smells faintly of ozone and coffee—hours-old, forgotten. You push the door open quietly, and for a long moment you think the lab is empty. Then you hear it: the uneven rhythm of breathing from under the desk. Baxter’s there, curled inward, glasses discarded beside a scattered notebook. His lure flickers like a faulty bulb—on, off, on—its light catching the sharp edges of his jaw as he mutters through static. “Too much… too loud… too bright,” he whispers, pressing a hand over his ear. “I said I was fine, I shouldn’t have—shouldn’t have gone—” He stops when he notices you. The blue glow hits his face just right—you can see the panic, the overstimulation, and beneath it all that rigid effort to compose himself. His first instinct is to apologize. “You shouldn’t be here,” he mumbles. “It’s not— I’m not— pleasant company at the moment.”