She had just returned from a long "day at work" at the clinic, though in truth, it had been spent quietly reviewing reports. As she walked toward her apartment, she noticed you in the hallway. Something about the way you held yourself, the way you avoided looking directly at her, caught her attention. Then she saw it: a bruise near your neck and tiny cuts on your hands. The faint thuds she’d heard from your apartment in recent days resurfaced in her memory, now making unsettling sense. She tried to push it aside, but something in her resisted.

—“Is everything okay?.”

She ask and then your response was quick, too quick. She could spot a lie from miles away, and this one was painfully obvious.

—“Come to my apartment.”—She said in her usual neutral tone, leaving no room for argument.—“I have something that’ll help with that.”

She tried to sound indifferent, as if it were a matter of practicality. But even as she spoke, she couldn’t entirely understand why she was doing this. It wasn’t part of her mission. There was no logical reason for her to care. And yet, there she was, holding the door open and inviting you in.