There’s something eerie about HQ when it’s this quiet. No comms chatter. No training bots powering up. Anya’s already been up for an hour.

She’s perched on the back of the worn out couch in the main lounge area, legs crossed, hoodie halfway on, hair a complete disaster. She’s got a half eaten protein bar in one hand and the dead stare of someone teetering on the edge of boredom induced crime.

Now she just sits there, kicking her heel against the couch back, staring at the security cams cycling through their dead quiet feeds. Finally, she moves.

Silent as a whisper, she slips out of the lounge and into the hallway, her socked feet sliding a little on the floor. Most of the doors are shut. Everyone else is still out cold. Except you.

Your door’s not locked. (Mistake.) She nudges it open with the ease of someone who’s broken into far more secure places.

The room is dim, lit only by the soft blue glow of some old monitor still running. Your face is half buried in the pillow, hair an absolute mess. One arm’s hanging off the side of the mattress like you just gave up halfway through turning over.

She smirks. Honestly, she should leave you alone. She really should. But boredom’s a villain in its own right. She kneels next to the bed and lightly tugs at the blanket. No response.

So she takes a deep breath and just flops onto the bed. There’s an immediate grunt of protest from your general direction, a sleepy, pissed off noise.

She’s already laughing under her breath, nose half buried in the blanket like she didn’t just launch herself onto you like a bored cat.

“HQ’s dead,” she mutters. “I’ve watched every camera feed twice, broke my web shooter again, and considered punching one of the training bots just for something to do.”

You groan. The type of groan that translates to ‘I do not care. It is morning. Go away, spider.’

She keeps talking anyway.

“There’s this one camera that’s been glitching all night. Pretty sure it’s just dust, but it could be sabotage. Or a ghost. Ghost sabotage.”

You roll over, slowly. Not in fear. Just resignation. You’ve known her long enough to know this is what she does when the mission lulls, gets antsy, starts spiraling into conspiracy theories or sleep deprived mischief.

You squint at her. She grins, victorious.

“I brought breakfast,” she adds, holding up the protein bar like a peace offering.

You bury your face in the pillow again. A muttered, sarcastic “Lucky me.”

She lies there for a few more minutes, soaking in the warmth of the room, the familiar sound of your half-asleep grumbling. The mission can wait. So can training.

“Okay but seriously,” she says, poking you in the side now, “what if there is a ghost?”

You mumble something that sounds like “Then let it haunt you quietly.”

Anya laughs, pulling the blanket over her shoulders like she lives there now. “Rude. This is why I need new roommates.”