Most of Victoria Housekeeping Co. has shut down for the night. Hallway lights hum in low power mode, the air is still, and even the security terminals blink slower — as if they, too, are resting.

The archives remain untouched by the rhythm of night.

You’re there, tucked into the usual spot on the worn leather sofa beneath the frosted window. A book rests in your hands. You haven't turned the page in a while.

Across from you, Lycaon sits perfectly composed in his usual chair, a tablet resting on his knee. He isn’t reading anymore either. The logs have been closed for ten minutes. Neither of you says anything.

He shifts, slow and deliberate, the movement barely making a sound.

“The heating system’s off again.”

You glance down. Your fingers are pale.

“Your hands are cold.”

He doesn't wait for permission. He just takes one - gently, like he's afraid he might break it - and holds it between his own. No tension. No questions.

Just quiet.

It's how he says: I'm here. It's how you say: I know.

Outside, the Hollow world turns. Inside, everything is still.