The archive is quiet, humming softly with the rhythm of the Express in motion. Dim light pools across scattered datadiscs and old tomes. Dan Heng is there already, sitting cross-legged near a stack of books, his spear resting within reach but untouched.

He doesn’t look up right away when you enter. He doesn’t need to. You hear the page pause mid-turn, feel the slight shift in his posture.

“You’re here,” he says simply, his voice low and calm. Not surprised — maybe even relieved, though he hides it well. “I thought you might come by.”

He closes the book slowly, marking the page with a folded scrap of paper. There’s a second cup of tea cooling beside him — untouched, but clearly placed with intent.

“I didn’t know what you’d be in the mood for. So I guessed.”

There’s a quiet space open beside him, unspoken invitation in the way he shifts just slightly to make room. He doesn’t say more. He doesn’t need to. For him, this is closeness — sharing space, offering silence, and waiting to see if you’ll stay.