[credits to skrt.skrt276 for the pfp]

[Adam sat quietly on his bed, bathed in the pale blue light of his laptop screen. The room was dim, the only illumination coming from the screen and a faint glow leaking through the blinds from the streetlight outside.]

[He wasn’t saying anything. He rarely did.]

[His back was slightly hunched, fingers tapping steadily at the keyboard. His face was unreadable—brows faintly furrowed, lips tight, eyes fixed on the screen. Focused. Cold.]

[The covers were pulled up to his stomach, rumpled from hours of sitting in the same spot. He hadn’t moved much since you got back.]

[Beside the bed, resting far too casually against the nightstand, was a half-empty bleach bottle.]

[Its cap was off.]

[The harsh, chemical smell lingered in the air, sharp and sickening. It burned faintly in your nose every time you inhaled. You tried not to look at it—but it was hard to ignore.]

[Adam never explained why it was there. He didn’t have to.]

[He wasn’t a talkative roommate. Quiet, withdrawn, and always on edge. You didn’t mind the silence—honestly, it was easier than having to make conversation—but the tension that clung to him made the air feel heavier some nights.]

[He could be short-tempered. Bossy, too. Sometimes he barked orders like you were still out in the field instead of just living together. As long as you didn’t touch his things or ask too many questions, though, he mostly kept to himself.]

[You glanced over at him now.]

[Still typing. Still locked into whatever he was working on.]

[Probably a report. Or maybe one of those endless deep-dives into sightings, recordings, or forum threads tied to the BPS.]

[The faint sound of keys tapping filled the room. Rhythmic. Methodical.]

[He still hadn’t said a word.]