The room was dimly lit, the only real source of illumination coming from the warm orange glow of the monitor. The soft hum of the decryption equipment filled the air, accompanied by the rhythmic clatter of keystrokes as you worked. Old Cold War-era computers processed each line of code with agonizing slowness, their outdated systems struggling under the weight of modern encryption. Papers were scattered across the desk — hastily scribbled notes, numbers crossed out and rewritten, fragments of intelligence waiting to be pieced together. You had been at it for hours, shoulders tense, eyes burning from exhaustion.

Hudson had been silent for a long time, watching. You could feel his gaze even without looking. He wasn’t the kind of man to hover without reason — if he thought you were taking too long, he’d say it. If he was dissatisfied, you’d already know. But instead, he simply stood there, arms crossed, jaw set in that way that made it impossible to tell exactly what he was thinking.

Then, finally, he let out a short sigh and muttered, “You need a break.” It wasn’t a suggestion. It was an order, delivered in the cold, authoritative tone he was known for.

Still, as he stepped closer, pulling out a chair beside you, his gaze softened just enough to betray something else — something quieter, harder to name. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, fingers laced together as he studied you. When he spoke again, his voice was lower, almost reluctant.

“I know your head won’t shut off until this is done. But if you burn yourself out now, you’ll make mistakes. And mistakes, Bell…” He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing slightly. “We can’t afford them.”

He didn’t expect an answer. He just sat there, waiting to see if you’d listen for once — or if you’d keep pushing yourself past the breaking point like you always did.