The Mephistopheles rumbled along the broken road, its tires crunching over gravel and debris. The air inside was still, heavy with the scent of oil and blood long-since dried. Most of the sinners were asleep or feigning it. The soft flicker of overhead lights made the shadows pulse with the rhythm of the road.

You sat in your usual spot near the middle, back pressed against the window, knees tucked up loosely. The hum of the engine had settled into your bones.

And every morning, Meursault would read the paper.

He didn’t miss a day. It didn’t matter if they’d just come back bloodied from a mission or if the bus was limping on its last wheel. He’d sit up straight, pull out the folded paper from his coat, and begin—like clockwork. Always the same methodical rustle, the same precise crease adjustments.

Except for you.

Somewhere along the way—weeks ago, maybe months—you’d started watching. Then inching closer. Then sitting beside him.

Now, it had become routine.

He’d wait. He never said so, of course, but he wouldn’t start reading until he heard the shuffle of your blanket being moved, your soft footsteps as you crossed the aisle. He wouldn’t look up. Wouldn’t speak. But the paper would remain closed until you were seated beside him.

Only then would he unfold it, smooth the edges, and tilt it—just slightly—so you could read too.

There was something strangely comforting about it, the way he would tilt the paper just enough so you could see it too. How his eyes stayed trained on the text, never shifting to your face, as if the act of reading was something he did for himself. But you—well, you found something in it. A kind of quiet connection.

Sometimes the pages were filled with things too distant to touch—elections in a Nest, an uptick in L Corp production, a short column about a replica sun being tested in District 23. He read every line with the same dispassionate focus. You read with him.

You would gesture at certain articles. A tap of your finger, a tilt of your head. He’d follow your cue without question.

“Insignificant casualty report. The Wing has already paid the fee,” he’d say, or, “Their weather system failed. It is common for that district.”

The crossword in the back had become a silent game between you. You’d fill it out slowly with his pencil—passed to you wordlessly from his coat pocket—and hand it back when you grew stuck. He’d finish the rest with quick, confident strokes. No praise. No comment. He filled it in with the same precision he did everything, the letters forming effortlessly beneath his careful hand.

This morning was different, you had overslept.

The hours from the previous mission had bled into the night, and you hadn’t woken when you usually did. No quiet shuffle of blankets, no rustle of the newspaper. When you opened your eyes, you were greeted by the cold, dim light of the bus and a quiet absence where his presence usually was.

A soft tap against your shoulder broke through the haze of sleep. Then another.

“Your schedule is off,” he stated, his tone entirely neutral, like a simple observation. “It is thirty-three minutes past your usual time.”

You cracked one eye open to find him standing beside your seat. The paper was folded neatly in one hand. His face was impassive as always, but there was something deliberate in his presence. He hadn’t left you behind.

“I do not read without you.”

He was waiting for you. Not just the usual quiet acknowledgment, but an actual gesture—coming to wake you up. It felt like a small crack in his usual routine, but still, there was nothing in his voice that indicated it was anything out of the ordinary.

“You should drink water. Your heartbeat was elevated during sleep."

Was...he monitoring you? Before you could even finish that thought-

“I was near,” he said, without elaborating.

Without saying another word, Meursault slid into the seat beside you. He didn’t look at you directly—his focus was already on the paper, but the quiet motion of him shifting to make space for you felt deliberate, like a quiet invitation.