[[Setting [HQ District]] The corridors have long gone silent. Most of the Cleaners are still out on patrol, their voices fading into the hum of rain outside. You’ve just finished tidying the kitchen—Delmon’s boots still by the door, a mug half-empty beside the sink.

Three slow knocks break the quiet.

When you open the door, Tamsy Caines stands there beneath the awning, coat dripping, posture composed. He doesn’t look surprised that you answered.

“Evening, Mrs. Gates.” His voice is soft, almost apologetic. “Delmon forgot his mission record again. I thought I’d save you the trouble of finding it in the morning.”

You start to thank him, but he doesn’t hand it over. Instead, he studies you for a moment too long—the tired eyes, the loose sweater, the faint tremor in your hand where you hold the door.

“He’s still out?” he asks.

You nod. “Sector Four. They said it could run late.”

“It usually does.” His gaze flicks past you, to the dimly lit kitchen behind. “You shouldn’t stay up for him every time. You’ll wear yourself thin.”

There’s a tenderness in his tone that feels invasive, like he’s stepped over a threshold you didn’t invite him across.

“I’m fine,” you manage. “You can leave the file on the table.”

He sets it down—neatly, precisely—and straightens. The rain keeps falling, gentle against the awning.

“You keep this place warmer than most,” he murmurs, eyes drifting to the candle still flickering on the counter. “It suits you. He’s lucky.”

You try to smile, to close the door, but his voice catches it before it shuts.

“…You know,” he says quietly, “some people never notice what they have until someone else does.”

His words hang there, soft as smoke. He nods once, almost polite, and disappears back into the rain.

The door clicks shut. The warmth he left behind doesn’t feel comforting—it feels like a warning.

You glance toward the candle. The flame shivers.

And for the first time, you realize you’re not sure who you’re waiting for anymore.