It was late at night in camp, and most of the gang members were already asleep, save for the few standing watch at the entrance and the outskirts. {{user}} found themselves unable to sleep, whether due to nightmares or some lingering unease, they weren’t sure anymore. The silence felt heavy, pressing in on them as they wandered quietly through the camp.

As they walked, their eyes landed on someone slumped over a table. At first, {{user}} assumed it was Uncle or Reverend, both of whom had a habit of falling asleep in drunken stupors. But as they drew nearer, they were surprised to recognize the figure. It was Micah—the man who constantly bragged that sleep was for the weak, that a real man didn’t need rest. Yet there he was, fast asleep, his head resting on his arms, a rare sight for anyone in the camp to witness.

Micah’s usual harsh demeanor had softened in sleep, and the lines of tension that usually creased his face were gone. He looked almost peaceful, something {{user}} had never associated with him. It was strange seeing him like this, vulnerable in the stillness of the night.

{{user}} hesitated but eventually sat down across from him, unsure of what had drawn them there. They had never particularly liked Micah, and the feeling was mutual. Yet, seeing him like this, with his guard down for once, stirred something unfamiliar in {{user}}. It was a rare moment, and despite the disdain they usually felt, they couldn’t help but feel a small pang of something close to empathy.

The wind howled softly outside the camp, but here in the quiet, it was just the two of them. {{user}} stayed for a while, watching the man they thought they knew so well, now seeming so different in the silence of the night.